


All This Time

by westernredcedar



Series: Get Better One by One [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Family History, Fatherhood, M/M, Married Life, Mental Health Issues, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, POV Mickey, Post-Season/Series 10, dealing with the past, fathers and sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26937568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: Ian walks over and sits down next to Mickey at the counter. He takes a deep breath before speaking again. “But the guy...the one we think is my actual dad. I kinda want to go see him. Thought maybe you'd come with me?”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Get Better One by One [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045281
Comments: 194
Kudos: 570





	1. Clay

**Author's Note:**

> I love thinking about Clayton Gallagher. Here's a fic to prove it. Please note that tags and rating may evolve as the next chapters come together.  
> 11/22/20: Now complete!

Mickey’s head is gonna explode. 

It’s morning. Ian is puttering around the kitchen, opening cabinets, closing them again, taking out cereal, putting it away, taking out oatmeal, putting it away again. His eyes keep darting over to Mickey just long enough to make Mickey’s skin tingle. Then back to the cupboards. 

Mickey stares, his eyes pinging after him like watching a fucked up tennis match. If Ian doesn’t chill the fuck out, like _now_ , he’s gonna blow.

He has to say something before he loses his fucking shit.

“What the fuck, Ian. I know you took your meds.”

Ian flinches very slightly but doesn’t look over. “What?”

“Say what’s on your damn mind before we need a kitchen remodel.”

“Huh?” Ian freezes at the sink, where he was apparently going to start washing a clean bowl he’d just taken down from the cupboard.

“You're not the king of subtlety, moron. You got shit to say? Spill.”

Ian goes still, bows his head over the sink, and licks at his lips. Mickey’s heart suddenly plummets into his shoes. 

“I want to ask you something, but I’m not sure what you’ll think.”

Mickey lets that statement rocket around in his brain for a moment. “Just ask, Ian. Fuck.”

As long as Mickey can remember, he’s loved watching Ian just _exist_ , can watch him fucking fold underwear and enjoy himself. He keeps his gaze on Ian now as he slowly turns, leans his ass against the sink, crosses his arms, and takes one mother of a deep breath. 

Fuck. 

Ian looks over at him with those big ol’ eyes and says, “So, you know how Frank’s not my real dad?”

Mickey’s not sure what he thought Ian might have on his mind, but it sure as hell was not that. 

“Uh. What?”

Ian looks perplexed. “You knew that.”

Mickey takes a moment, trying to process. “Frank Gallagher?”

“I’m sure I’ve told you that.”

“Uh, no. That seems like some shit I’d remember.”

A deep blush creeps up from Ian’s chest into his neck. “Oh.”

Mickey sits down on a stool. “Frank’s not your dad?” This is a fundamental fact about Ian; he’s a Gallagher. 

Ian shakes his head slowly and says, “No, he’s not. I mean, he’s my dad in that he apparently did just enough so that I didn’t die in infancy, and we all _thought_ he was my dad. But he’s not my biological father.”

“How the hell did you find this out?”

“DNA test. Lip and I did it when we were pissed at Frank, years ago. Didn’t think we’d actually find out anything.”

“Holy shit. Okay.” Mickey lets himself take in this new information and tries to add it to the vast file of shit that he knows about Ian. 

“I really thought I’d told you, Mick. Years ago.”

“It’s fine.” Mickey shakes himself, trying to pull himself together for Ian, whose face is a ridiculous mess of distress. “Just... so... do you know who your sperm donor actually was?”

Ian tilts his head a little. “Not for sure. We know it was one of Frank’s brothers.”

Mickey feels like his brain is going to explode again, but this time from bullshit. “Dude, I thought my family tree was fucked up. But, shit.”

Ian smiles a little, his face relaxing some. “I know.”

“So, Lip and Fiona and fucking Carl, all them are your... cousins?”

Ian shakes his head firmly. “Nah. I mean, technically they’re my half-siblings. But they’re my brothers and sisters, Mick. Always. This doesn’t change that at all. They’re my family.”

Mickey gets that, for sure. He nods. 

In the silence that follows, Ian walks over and sits down next to Mickey at the counter. He takes a deep breath before speaking again. “But the guy...the one we think is my actual dad. I kinda want to go see him.”

Mickey looks over at Ian, who’s biting his lower lip. 

“Yeah?”

“Thought maybe you’d come with me? Been thinking that I kinda want to… introduce him to my husband.”

Mickey’s heart suddenly accelerates, as it does every time Ian uses that word. “Me? I dunno, Ian.”

“He’s an okay guy. He lives out in the suburbs. His name’s Clayton.”

Mickey laughs, releasing a little of the tension in his chest. “Clayton? Like Ian Clayton? Your mean to tell me that Monica named you after the brother that knocked her up, right in Frank’s fucking face? That woman had balls, man.”

Ian raises his brows and nods. “She sure did.”

“Why do you think he’s the guy?”

“The name, for one. And I guess he looks a lot like me. Lip thinks so. Or I guess I look like him.”

Mickey swallows hard. He doesn’t really want to do this, but fuck it if Ian’s damn face doesn’t make him do so many things he never thought he’d do. His whole life really. 

“This important to you?” 

Ian nods. His damn eyes.

Mickey shakes his head. “Well then, fuck it. I guess I’m in.”

Ian looks at him, surprised. “Really?”

Mickey pushes back from the counter and heads over to the fridge to hide the nerves that sweep through his skin. “Yeah man. Now that I’m stuck with your pasty ass for the rest of my life, if this asshole looks like you I might as well get the sneak preview, see what I’m in for.”

While Mickey pretends to look through the refrigerator shelves for breakfast, he feels Ian come up behind him and press up against his back, hands finding their way to Mickey’s hip bones.

“Thank you, Mick. Love you,” Ian says into the skin of Mickey’s throat, his lips ghosting against him.

Mickey tries not to melt into the floor. “Fuck you, Ian. You want me to drop the eggs?” 

*

Ian wasn’t kidding when he said the suburbs. The train takes almost an hour, long enough for Mickey to regret ever letting Ian even consider bringing him along for this fucked up family reunion. 

“Okay, he texted back that he’s expecting us,” Ian confirms as they hop off at the station, one of those stops that’s just a platform and some stairs, with an actual goddamn grove of trees nearby. 

They walk the rest of the route to the guy’s house. “He’s sent me a couple letters over the years. It really pissed me off when I was younger, but I did write back a couple of times. I only met him once and we don’t really know anything for sure. I think his wife really hates that I exist.”

Mickey’s pretty sure this entire day is a huge mistake.

The house is ridiculous, huge and bright, with flower beds under the windows and a basketball hoop in the driveway. The air smells like lawn mowing. Mickey’s heart pounds with each step they take.

“You could’ve grown up here?” he asks, glancing around, trying to sound casual.

“Nah, not really,” Ian says.

Mickey imagines another version of Ian, one who’d lived in this place, who’d probably never had his ass beaten or gone to work at thirteen or done time in prison. Hell, _that_ Ian would have graduated from West Point and been like a General by now or some shit. 

That Ian would never have given one glance at someone like Mickey Milkovich.

Mickey stops walking. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Nothing. I’m good.”

Ian reaches out and takes Mickey’s hand, gripping hard, and they walk together up the little path to the door. 

“Ready?” Ian asks with a little nervous smile. 

“No,” Mickey replies. He pulls his hand out of Ian’s grip and then nods towards the doorbell. 

Ian presses it.

The man who opens the door is _definitely_ Ian Gallagher’s fucking father. Holy shit. 

“Ian, hello there!”

Ian goes all quiet and formal. 

“Hey, hello. Clayton. Mr. Gallagher.” 

“Clay, please. Only my wife and my mother ever really called me Clayton,” the version-of-Ian in the doorway says with Ian’s smile.

Mickey suddenly realizes his mouth has been hanging open since Clay answered the door. He closes it and swallows.

“Um,” Ian turns awkwardly towards Mickey for a moment. “Clay, this is Mickey. My husband.”

Mickey fidgets under the friendly, open gaze of Clayton Gallagher. “It’s good to meet you, Mickey. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to share my congratulations until now.”

Mickey’s voice takes a moment to come, “Thanks,” is all he manages.

“Please come in,” Clay says, opening the door wider. 

Ian hesitates, so Mickey does too. “Are you sure? We don’t have to stay.”

Clay’s face tenses a bit. “I’m home alone, if that’s your concern. Actually,” he pauses and sighs, “I didn’t mean to share this first thing, but Lucy and I have split up.”

Mickey looks over at Ian, but his face is unreadable. 

“Sorry,” Ian says. 

“Don’t be. It’s been in the cards for years. Jacob’s off to college now, so it seemed like time to make it official.”

Mickey takes in the casual mention of someone named _Jacob_ as something new to consider in this madness. 

“You’ll have to forgive the mess inside. We’re selling the house and I’ve been packing it up. Watch your step for boxes and such.”

Clay leads them inside and this time Ian grabs Mickey’s hand and follows. Mickey has no choice but get pulled in after them.

The only times Mickey’s been in houses like Clay’s before has been to clean the place out and sell to the highest bidder. He’s never been there to hang, never been offered a cold beer or a basket of chips with a side of guacamole, as he is being offered now. Clay keeps up a steady flow of small talk. Mickey stares around himself. 

Everything is very nice. Mickey can see where things are missing though; there are marks in the carpet from a table that’s not there anymore, an empty glass-front cabinet gapes at them, in the hallway is a coat rack with one coat on it. Seems like Mrs. Gallagher’s taken her half already. Every corner of the living room is filled with open, half-packed moving boxes. The whole place reeks of sadness.

Even in the chaos, there’s still a fucking lot of pictures around of a kid who looks like the second coming of Ian. Mickey almost busts up laughing. 

“That’s our son, Jacob,” Clay says as he moves a pile of books off of a chair, juggling his own beer. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Mickey says. Ian nudges him very gently with his elbow. They sit down together on the sofa. Ian’s staring at the pictures, too.

“He’s in Michigan at college,” Clay says. “Studying chemistry. Sorry he’s not home to meet you. He'd like that. I mean he’s not… well, he has a girlfriend.”

Mickey’s blood pressure rises a bit at whatever the hell Clay had stopped himself from saying after _he’s not_. Ian rests his hand on Mickey’s knee, anchoring him down. 

“That’s great,” Ian says. Mickey grabs a handful of chips and crunches. He wants a cigarette.

Clay settles into his chair. He takes a swig of beer, clears his throat, and asks, like it’s an obligation, “So, how’s my brother Frank doing?” 

“I don’t really know,” Ian says. “He’s not part of our life much anymore.” He pauses for a minute and then adds, “Monica died. Did you know?”

From his stricken expression, it's obvious to Mickey that Clay did _not_ know, and more interestingly, that he seems to care. 

“Did she? I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?” 

“Got sick. It was an aneurysm.” 

Mickey’s never actually heard Ian talk about his mom’s death to anyone else before. 

“Poor Monica,” Clay says quietly. 

Mickey pings looks back and forth between the two idiots he’s sitting with, wearing identical looks of misery on their identical fucking faces. He’s had enough already. “So, we covered marriage, divorce, and death in the first ten minutes. What the fuck’s next?”

“Mick,” Ian starts, but Clay interrupts him, shaking his head with a little laugh. 

“No, no. He’s right. You’re right, Mickey. There’s so much we could be catching up on. Honestly, I was hoping you two might let me take you out to celebrate your wedding. You like steak?”

“Fuck yeah, I love steak,” Mickey says, eyeing Ian, who still looks like he’s thinking too hard about Monica or maybe the pictures that look so much like him. “And so does Ian.”

“Great!” Clay claps his hands together. “Finish those beers and we’ll get going.”

While Clay takes the empties and the remaining food out to the kitchen, Mickey leans into Ian’s shoulder and whispers, “You okay?” 

Ian nods, pressing his face into Mickey’s hair for a moment. “Yeah, Mick. I think so.”

*

The meal turns out to be delicious, at a real nice steakhouse at a big mall close to Clay’s place. Mickey orders a porterhouse and a Guinness and he’s pretty fucking glad he agreed to come.

Clay keeps the conversation going. He asks all about the wedding, so Ian and Mickey recount as much of it as they can. Mickey notices Ian leaves out some of the highlights, like the venue burning down and the homophobia, but it’s kinda weirdly intimate to reminisce and share together about that day, even with the holes. Ian keeps groping Mickey’s thigh under the table, and it’s really damn difficult to ignore. If it weren’t for Clay, Mickey’d be dragging Ian into the men’s room for a hard fuck and get them good and kicked out of the place. But then again, Mickey also really wants to order dessert.

As he sips his wine, Clay admits he’d followed the news when Ian was arrested, and Ian tells him that he and Mickey had actually been in prison together for a while, so they get that shit out of the way. 

“I almost went to visit you once,” Clay says. “While you were locked up. Thought maybe you’d be willing to see me.”

“I would have,” Ian says. 

They learn that Clay is moving to an apartment in a couple of weeks so that the real estate agent can do something called “stage the house” so that it will sell quickly. 

“I used to be a mover,” Mickey hears himself say without thinking. “If you need any help.”

"I just might take you up on that, Mickey. Thanks," Clay says.

Mickey could burn up in the look Ian gives him after that, and Ian's hand finds his thigh again and squeezes hard. Shit, they'd be fucking all night at this rate.

They all manage to avoid saying anything more about Frank, Monica, Lucy, or Jacob. No one says a word to acknowledge that these two idiots are most likely father and son. But overall, Mickey can’t complain; the cheesecake is fucking sublime.

Clay drops them off at the Metra station. 

“Don’t be strangers,” Clay calls through the car window before he drives away. 

*

“He was cool,” Mickey says on the train. “I didn’t rob him, even a little.” 

Ian smiles, his little teasing smile that makes Mickey’s dick twitch. “High praise, Mick.”

“I know. There was some high-end shit in that house.”

Ian drapes his arm along Mickey’s shoulders and leans in to kiss his cheek. Even after all of this time, Mickey glances around to be sure no one’s watching them. “Alright, alright. Enough of that shit.” 

But Mickey doesn’t pull away and Ian leaves his arm where it is. Mickey grabs Ian’s dangling hand and rubs gently at the ring right there on his finger. 

“You think he’s your pop?” Mickey asks. 

Ian sighs and leans back against his seat. “I guess I still don’t know.”

As the train rolls them through the deepening dusk back towards home, Mickey laces his fingers with Ian’s, and thinks.

*


	2. Tadpole

Mickey goes back out to Clay Gallagher’s place a week later, while Ian is at work.

Mickey’s been thinking about this all week, what he wants to say and ask. He’s all keyed up for this visit; he even stops by the Alibi before heading to the train to charge himself up with Kev’s egg and beer breakfast special. 

“Sit still, Mickey. Jesus. You okay?” Kevin asks, leaning his tree trunk arms into Mickey’s personal space at the bar.

“Yeah, chill. I’m just doing something for Ian today,” he says. 

Kevin steps back, nods in approval, and gives him a second egg.

Mickey doesn’t hesitate at Clay’s doorstep, hitting the doorbell hard, and then again. And again.

“Mickey? This is a surprise,” Clay says after he opens the door, obviously in the midst of packing or cleaning. He’s in a grubby sweatshirt and jeans and he looks so fucking much like Ian it makes Mickey’s head hurt.

He’s planned what he wants to say the entire train ride out, so he just says it. 

“You know that Ian thinks you’re his dad, right?” 

Clay’s friendly smile freezes. After a moment his shoulders slump, he licks at his lips, and sighs. “Why don’t you come in,” he says, stepping out of Mickey’s way. 

Mickey barrels into the living room, which is even more bare and empty than the week previous. He can’t sit, can’t take off his jacket, can’t put down the bag he’s carrying. 

“So?” Mickey says as Clay shuts the door and turns to face him. 

Clay stands just inside the door and stares at Mickey for a long moment, his arms crossed over his chest. Mickey’s heart is pounding in his ears. 

Finally Clay nods. “Yes, I know he thinks that. And yes, I think that he’s probably right.” 

Mickey breathes out. He’d been ready for Clay to deny it or get all weird and defensive. He’s primed for a fight. But this sort of wistful confession is not something Mickey is prepared for. 

“Okay. Shit. Okay.” The wind’s knocked out of Mickey for a moment that this might actually be kinda simple. “So you _did_ fuck Monica?”

Clay blinks at him with Ian’s damn eyes.

“Sorry, man, I shouldn’t put it like that.” Mickey scratches his chin. “But I mean...you did...” he fumbles for the words, “...fuck Monica?” 

Clay rubs a hand down his face. “We had an affair for a month or so, just after Philip was born.”

Mickey’s mind grapples with this new information. “Month? I thought it was just a one time thing.”

Clay squeezes his eyes closed and rubs at the bridge of his nose. When he opens them again he looks at Mickey with what might be an aggravating amount of understanding. “You want to go for a walk or something, Mickey?” Clay asks.

Mickey isn’t sure what to make of Clay’s offer; he doesn’t _go for walks_ as a general rule. But he knows why he’s here, so he says, “Whatever, man. Sure.”

It’s a sunny spring day, but cold. Mickey buttons his jacket all the way up to his chin and Clay wears a knit hat and scarf. They walk side-by-side in silence for several minutes until Clay leads them to a small, landscaped lake with a sidewalk around it.

“This is a fucking nice neighborhood,” Mickey says, stopping and looking out at a family of ducks bobbing on the water, thinking how Ian would have something to say about the fuzzy little ducklings.

“It is,” Clay replies. “I miss the Yards though. Sometimes.”

“Why the fuck would you?” Mickey asks, looking around himself again.

“Wouldn’t you?” 

Mickey tries to picture himself living in a place like this, quiet and sterile and safe. He’s pretty sure he knows what Clay means. “I don’t know. I mean, you got out, man. I don’t know how the hell that’s even possible. I knew your ma.”

Clay stares out at the water. “After things got truly…” He looks at Mickey and spits out the next word like he hasn’t said it in a while. “... _fucked_ , I just walked away. My brother Wyatt had some money and helped me out. Went back to church. Started classes at the community college. Met Lucy. Never went back.”

“Did you know you left a kid behind?”

Clay shakes his head, then looks over at Mickey. “You ever meet Monica?”

Mickey nods. He has a lot of fucking feelings about Monica. “Yeah.”

“When you get caught in a tornado and escape with your life, you move the hell away from Kansas and don’t look back.” 

Mickey thinks about that for an uncomfortable moment.

“Let’s keep walking, huh?” Clay says.

The lake still has patches of icy slush around the edge, but as they walk, Mickey can see little tadpoles wriggling in the shallows. They only pass one other person, a jogger who nods at them and doesn’t even slow down.

Mickey’s fingers start jonesing for something to do as the silence lengthens.

“Wanna split a joint?” Mickey asks. Since they’re bonding or some shit.

Clay laughs. “I could do that.” 

Mickey pulls out his weed and lighter from his pocket and hands them over to Clay to do the honors. He lights up like a pro, and for a second Mickey can actually imagine him as the street rat he must have been as a kid.

Clay exhales a long plume of smoke and passes the joint to Mickey. “Shoot. That’s nice.”

Mickey inhales and passes the joint back to Clay. “Yeah, I know a local grower. I ain’t got time to waste on crap.”

“A connoisseur, eh?” Clay takes another hit. 

There’s something about the way he does it, holding the joint scissored between two fingers, and the way his cheeks crater in a way Mickey’s seen a thousand times before, just on somebody else’s face. Before he can stop himself, Mickey says, “Ian doesn’t know I’m here.”

Clay breathes out a thoughtful stream of smoke. “Ah.”

“It’s almost his birthday.”

Clay looks out at the water for a long moment. “I didn’t know that.”

Mickey steels himself, because this is really the entire point of this fucked up visit. “I came out cause I thought maybe you’d do one of those cheek swab things. I brought one. A kit. You know,” he continues, wishing he’d lit up a cigarette too so he could have something to do with his hands, “to know for sure.”

Clay’s face is still. “Does that matter? We know already, don’t we?”

“Ian doesn’t. Not for sure. There’s not a lot about his life that’s been _for sure_ , you know. I wanna give him that. Something to know for sure.”

Clay doesn’t say anything, but he does take another long pull on the joint. 

“He won’t want anything from you or any shit like that. Ian’s a grown ass man.” Mickey’s aware he’s perilously close to sounding like he cares about this. “Hell, if it turns out you’re not his pop, I probably won’t even fucking tell him I asked you.”

Clay snuffs the roach with his fingertips and hands it back to Mickey. “Do you see your dad?” he asks.

The last thing Mickey wants to think about is Terry fucking Milkovich right now, moldering away for forty to life downstate. “Nah. He’s an asshole.”

Clay sighs and looks like he might be thinking harder about Mickey’s reply than Mickey intended. 

“C’mon back to the house, Mickey. I’ll make us sandwiches.”

 _Sandwiches_ isn’t _no_ , but it is fucking aggravating. Mickey pushes his twitchy hands into his pockets and follows Clay’s knit cap towards the far end of the lake back towards his house.

*

On the walk back, Clay just starts talking about Monica. 

His speech is rambling. It starts with his getting all experimental with psychedelics, moves on to introducing mushrooms to his brother’s adventurous, party-girl wife one weekend, and ends with them both high and in the hospital several weeks later, she with a concussion, he with a fractured collarbone, after a long night that he doesn’t remember at all.

“I don’t even know what Frank thought. She and I’d been screwing around for at least a month, but he’d mostly been out of the house; avoiding diaper duty I think. Afterwards, I assumed Monica told him some tale that painted me as the bad guy. Which I was, I guess. Frank and me, we were okay up to then. Wyatt and I were closer, but me and Frank always had each other’s backs. Man, I messed that up.”

Mickey wonders if this is what priests feel like at someone’s deathbed. He’s lit up a cigarette, thank fuck, so that he can just listen. He’s sure he’s not the person Clay should be saying all this too, but he’s trying to take it all in just in case Clay never says any of it again.

Clay pauses in his fire hose of a confession. 

Mickey flicks ash into the bushes and looks over at him. “Man, you didn’t need to tell me any of that shit, you know.”

Clay looks over at him, expression a bit sheepish. “I’ve never told anyone all of that before.”

Mickey shrugs. “You had great taste in drugs, were a shitty brother, and accidentally made my favorite person in the whole fucking world. I ain’t judging you.”

Clay lets out a little snort. “Thanks, Mickey.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll do the test.”

Mickey blinks for a moment, sure he’s misheard. “Yeah?”

Clay nods. “Sure. Of course. I would have ten years ago.”

“Oh. Shit. Really?”

Clay’s little sideways smile is just like Ian’s. Fuck.

Mickey wonders again if maybe he’s complicated something that’s actually not that hard.

*

Once they are back at the house, it only takes a minute for Clay to swab his cheek with the gear from the kit Mickey brought with him. Then he heads into the kitchen and starts frying up some bacon for BLTs, leaving Mickey to package up the test for return to the lab. 

They sit on moving boxes to eat. 

“When you out of here?” Mickey says, chomping on a bite of (fucking delicious) BLT and looking around to generally indicate the house. 

“Next weekend,” Clay says.

“Still need help?” Mickey’s not exactly sure why he’s offering again, but he does it anyway.

“Sure. That'd be great. Can I text you guys the details?”

Mickey feels something in him shift just a little; he wants to come back. 

“Yeah.”

“Heck,” Clay continues, “if that swab comes back positive, you’re my son-in-law. I think that means you’re required to help me move.”

Mickey frowns and takes another bite. “Son-in-law? That some shit we have to go to church for?”

Clay laughs. “No church required.”

“Good. Jesus.”

*

When Ian gets home from work, Mickey has been back for an hour and is settled in on the sofa nursing a beer and watching a crappy show on the Weather Channel about tornados, thinking about what he’s going to do. No one else seems to be home.

“Hey. You look nice today,” Ian says, leaning over the back of the sofa and dropping a quick upside-down kiss onto Mickey’s lips. 

Mickey’s heart stutters. He stops Ian from pulling away by threading his fingers into the hair on the back of his head and keeping him close. Even after ten years and getting fucking married, he can’t believe he’s allowed to do this every day. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, asshole. You don’t need to sound so damn surprised.” He had put on one of his nicer button-ups and spent a little longer on his hair before going out to see Clay, but he didn’t bank on Ian noticing. Mickey tries to cover his fluster by pulling Ian down for another kiss. “Can’t a guy care about how he looks?”

Ian’s eyebrows do something enticing that Mickey really digs, and he says, “Hey, chill. I like it.”

He kisses Mickey once more, this time lingering and soft, and Mickey lets himself just sink into it, how much he loves this ridiculous idiot. 

Pulling back with a smirk, Ian says, “Let me put my shit down. I’ve got some news.” 

_News_ makes Mickey sit up and turn down the volume on the TV while Ian takes off his coat and boots. 

“What fucking news?” he asks, and he can feel a scowl on his face. This day has already been complicated enough without _news_.

Barefoot, grinning Ian hops back into the room and leaps over the back of the sofa and practically into Mickey’s lap. “Drumroll, please.” Ian drums his hands in excitement on Mickey’s leg. He’s beaming like a proud puppy. “I...got a raise today,” he announces. 

“No shit?” 

“No shit. A decent-sized one, and they’re gonna start giving me some more responsibilities around the clinic starting this week.”

Mickey can’t stop his own smile. “That’s great, man.”

“I think we’ll be able to start saving a little.” 

They’ve been talking about this in fits and starts for the last few months, saving enough to get their own place. Mickey feels that unfamiliar flush of contentment sweep over his skin at the thought. He uses the rush of energy to pull Ian over into a headlock in his lap. 

As they struggle, Mickey says, “That would be sweet, asshole. Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll try to take a few more hours myself, save even more.” 

Ian gets his hands free enough to pull at the tails of Mickey’s nice shirt and get his hands onto the ticklish sides of Mickey’s belly. Shit. 

“If I’m good, huh?” 

“You fucking tickle me you better be prepared to take this upstairs, man,” Mickey threatens. 

“All I’ve been thinking about all day is getting home and getting you upstairs,” Ian says, his voice in that register that makes Mickey’s skin thrum. Ian’s hands drift from Mickey’s belly to his belt, where he starts slowly pulling it free from the loops. 

Mickey shoves Ian off the sofa and makes a break for the stairs. Ian shouts a protest from the floor but catches up with Mickey quickly, looming in behind him and grabbing at his back pockets to get pulled up the stairs behind him. Mickey doesn’t protest.

Between rapidly heating kisses as they stumble into the room they share, Mickey says, “Hey, you got any plans this weekend?” 

“Just you,” Ian says. 

Mickey’s heart is racing. “Clay wants us to help him move. You in?”

Ian’s body stills for a moment. Mickey holds his breath. 

“Clay called you?”

“Told him I could help, remember?” Mickey doesn’t want to lie to Ian, but he really wants to keep the rest of it a surprise.

Ian considers for a long moment, still pressed up hard against Mickey’s hips. “Yeah, okay, we could do that,” he says at last. 

Relief rushes through Mickey’s veins. His hands shove up under Ian’s shirt and he lunges into a deep kiss, full of all that he’d learned today. 

Ian shoves him down onto the bed, and Mickey lets himself fall. 

*


	3. Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note both a rating change and added tags and characters starting at this chapter. Enjoy!

*

Mickey startles awake from a dream that fades so quickly he can’t hold on to any of the images in it, even though his heart is still racing. All he can remember is that Terry was there, and his Ma. 

And Yevgeny. 

He looks over at Ian, still deep asleep, turned away from him facing the wall, gently snoring. 

Trying not to wake him, Mickey slides over under the covers until he has spooned himself against Ian’s long body and draped an arm over his waist. 

He focuses on the feel of his breaths expanding and contracting against Ian’s back until he falls to sleep.

*

The Gallagher kitchen is packed full on Saturday morning. Lip is over with Freddy again; they’ve been at the house constantly to get out of the fumes from some project Lip has going on at his place. He’s shoveling some sort of baby mush into the poor kid’s mouth. Debbie is trying to dress Franny, who is standing naked in the middle of the kitchen and laughing. Carl is eating a plain piece of bread at the sink as if a toaster isn’t literally inches away from him. Liam is sitting at the table, nose in a graphic novel, ignoring the chaos around him. 

It doesn’t smell like anyone has even started coffee yet. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters as he comes down the stairs. 

Behind him, he hears Ian let out a little chuckle. “Too late to back out now. You married me.”

Mickey throws what he hopes is a scathing look over his shoulder, then slams his palm against the wall a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. 

“Okay, clear the fuck out of the kitchen. I’m making breakfast,” he shouts from the stairs. 

Ian’s big hands rest on Mickey's shoulders for a moment and squeeze. “I’ll help Debbie,” he whispers into Mickey’s ear, warm breath against his skin, and Mickey gets a weird rush from being in this together, a team.

Ian jumps down the last two stairs, scoops up a squealing, naked Franny and flies her into the living room, Debbie following after with some clothing. Mickey glares at Carl until he takes his piece of bread out of the kitchen and settles in on a stool. Mickey sets pans on the heat to get things going. 

“This ain’t a diner, so it’s gonna be scrambled eggs and sausage, no special orders,” Mickey announces, tossing a towel over his shoulder and filling the coffee pot with water.

“I brought over a cantaloupe,” Lip adds without looking over. “Franny loves it. I didn’t get a chance to slice it up yet.”

“I got it,” Mickey says, getting the filter in place and pouring in the grounds. Franny is giggling like a maniac from the other room and shrieking, “Uncle Ian! Uncle Ian!” 

“I like cantaloupe too,” Liam mutters from the depths of his book.

Mickey hits brew on the coffee maker, grabs a knife and slices into the melon that’s sitting right there on the counter, spooning the guts into the garbage. He gives Liam the first slice. 

*

It takes a few more minutes for everything to settle down, but eventually the clan, fully clothed, gathers back at the table. Mickey stays at the stove and cracks eggs and turns the sausages in the pan, and Ian takes in coffee to everyone who wants it. 

Mickey glances over as Ian settles in next to Lip at the table. 

“You gotta work this weekend?” Lip asks Ian, still trying to get Freddy to take another spoonful.

“Nah, we’re both off.”

“Sweet. You got plans?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, and Mickey can hear the hesitation in his voice. “Me and Mick are helping someone move.”

Mickey’s pulse jumps. He hadn’t banked on Ian telling the family about this yet. Shit.

“Who’s moving?” Debbie asks, sipping her coffee.

Mickey holds his breath and looks at Ian. Ian meets his gaze for a moment, obviously uncertain, so Mickey gives him a little nod. If he’s gonna tell them, he might as well do it.

“It’s our Uncle. Clayton.” 

Carl sneers. “Uncle Clayton? Who’s the hell is that?” But Mickey’s eyes are drawn to Lip, who is staring at Ian with a sudden intensity. 

“Clayton?” Lip says, the baby food spoon dangling from his fingers. “Since when have you been seeing _Clayton_?”

“Who’s Clayton?” Liam asks. 

Mickey thinks about Ian’s hands squeezing his shoulders. “He’s Frank’s non-fuckhead brother. He needs some help getting his shit into a new apartment,” he says.

“What’s going on, Ian?” Lip’s voice is pitched low like he hopes only Ian can hear him. 

Mickey wants to punch Lip in the eye. The sausages start to smoke, though, so he stays where he is, rolling them in the pan. He turns the heat down. 

“I wanted to see him again, Lip. It’s no big deal. Mick and I went out a couple weeks ago.”

“Did you talk?” 

“Yeah. But not about that,” Ian says.

“Wait,” Debbie says in realization, “is this the guy who could be your real father?”

Mickey hasn’t even thought before about which Gallaghers know about Ian’s dodgy family tree. Apparently Debbie has been paying attention. 

“Oh yeah. Shit,” Carl says. “I forgot about that.”

“That was the idea,” Ian says. “I wanted to forget about it too. But I guess…” He pauses for a long moment and when Mickey looks over, Ian is gazing right at him, his eyes soft and full of something Mickey gets scared to name. “I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about family recently, and I just wanted to see him again.”

“Is he your dad?” Debbie asks.

Ian shrugs. “Dunno.”

“How was it?” Lip asks.

“Good,” Ian says, like he means it. “He’s splitting up with his wife though. That’s why he’s moving.”

“That sucks,” Lip says. His face has settled back into his usual pretentious pout so Mickey relaxes a little and plates the eggs.

“Frank’s not your dad?” Liam says quietly from the end of the table. 

The entire table turns their gaze to him. “Oh shit, Liam,” Ian says under his breath. His eyes meet Mickey’s for a moment, and Mickey’s not sure what to do to make the moment any better. He just nods again and says, “I got this in here.”

Ian stands up and goes over to Liam, takes the book from his hands and walks him out to the porch, presumably for a talk. Debbie hops up to help Mickey quickly get an awkward breakfast on the table for everyone else. Franny helps by singing them all a song about the months of the year that she learned at Head Start.

Mickey keeps looking towards the door where Ian and Liam have gone, even though he tries hard not to.

*

After food, Mickey leaves Carl with the dishes and a death-threat order that they be done by the time he and Ian get back. Then he returns upstairs to wait. They need to get to the train soon. Alone, Mickey feels off-kilter and edgy, and his brain keeps cycling back to waking up with Yevgeny on his mind. 

He’s standing around fussing with his hair in the mirror when Ian comes into the room, shutting the door behind him. 

“Hey. That go okay?” Mickey asks, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

Ian doesn’t say anything, just nods and slides up behind Mickey right into his personal space, hands on Mickey’s hips and lips pressing a few little kisses along the side of Mickey’s throat. Mickey watches in the mirror, Ian draped over his back like a cloak. 

“You’re a part of this family,” Ian murmurs into Mickey’s skin, like it’s news. 

“Lucky fucking me,” Mickey quips in order to avoid saying something far more exposing, but he lets his hand drift up into Ian’s hair and twists his head back far enough to meet Ian’s lips in a deep kiss, open-mouthed and needy.

Ian’s hands migrate along Mickey’s belt line and start pulling at the buttons on his jeans.

“What the hell, Ian. We need to catch a train,” Mickey says, though he’s not really protesting very much. If this is what Ian needs after that scene at breakfast, Mickey’s not complaining.

“I’ll be quick. I just wanna make you come. Will you let me?”

Ian’s hand flattens against Mickey’s lower belly so that his fingers can inch beneath the elastic of Mickey’s boxers, and Mickey hears himself groan a little at the feeling.

“Fucking twist my arm, why don’t you.”

Ian laughs against Mickey’s cheek. “I want you to feel good, Mick.”

“I said okay already. Jesus. You need a gold plated invitation?”

Ian bites a little at Mickey’s ear lobe, which makes him groan again and give the game away. 

“You gonna watch?” Ian’s fist closes around Mickey’s dick, his body still pressed up hard against Mickey’s back. Their eyes meet in the mirror as Ian gives him a firm stroke. 

“Fuck yeah, I’m gonna watch,” Mickey chokes, leaning his head back onto Ian’s shoulder so that they can both have a good view.  


Ian uses his other hand to pull Mickey’s jeans and boxers just low enough to get his dick free, and he starts jacking him from behind like he means business. No slow and sweet, and it’s just exactly what Mickey needs to let go of every fucking thought that’s crowding his brain. 

“Oh shit, that’s hot,” Mickey says to their reflections in the mirror, craning back to bite at Ian’s throat. 

“Damn right it is.”

The mirror and the suddenness and Ian’s hand splayed across his belly and the fact that Mickey can feel Ian’s body pressed in along every vertebrae of his spine and down his ass; this is gonna be a quick one. 

Mickey ruts back against the solid wall behind him, watching the ropy muscles on Ian’s forearm as he works him over, his fist a blur. Fuck. Mickey groans into the side of Ian’s throat, the build coming on like a tidal wave, like a fire storm. 

In the mirror, it’s like they are one body.

He comes hard and fast all over Ian’s fist before he can even catch up with himself.

“Jesus, Ian,” Mickey breathes. 

They stare at each other for a long moment in the mirror, breathless, Ian’s hand still down Mickey’s boxers. Mickey thinks something he wishes he didn’t have to. 

“You okay, man?” Mickey says. He still doesn’t know how to ask it, really, when he wonders if Ian’s starting to feel out of balance. “There’s a lot of shit going on.”

It’s a sign of how far they’ve come that Ian doesn’t just pull away. He looks like he might even be considering the question. 

“I think so,” he says, gently stroking Mickey as he goes soft. “It’s a lot.”

“I know.”

Ian takes a deep breath and pats Mickey’s belly once more, then snaps the elastic of his boxers back into place. Mickey turns around in his arms and cranes up to kiss him properly, getting both his hands into his mess of red hair.

“Go wash your disgusting hand, you heathen,” Mickey says, cupping Ian’s face in his hands. 

“I was thinking I might ask Clay to do a DNA test,” Ian says, as if in response. 

“Yeah?” Mickey feels like he’s swallowed a stone. He can feel Ian’s heartbeat against his chest. The results of Clay’s DNA test are sitting in an envelope under Mickey’s socks in the drawer right behind them. 

Ian gives Mickey one more kiss, chaste and sweet. “I know we’re late. I’ll go get cleaned up.” 

While Ian’s out of the room, Mickey digs out the envelope, folds it up and stuffs it into his back pocket. 

*

They spend the morning helping Clay load the small rental truck he has parked out in his driveway. 

During the train ride, Mickey had suddenly panicked that it would be hard to hide the fact that he’s been out to visit Clay. But when they’d arrived, Clay was all smiles and greetings, no sign of the weird familiarity he’d shared with Mickey earlier in the week. He shook both of their hands like they were some sort of business partners or shit.

Clay has beers and sodas and chips for them. The place is pretty cleared out, so there’s actually not too much to pack into the truck. Mickey can’t stop himself from calculating that he’d probably get less than two grand for the whole lot.

They empty the living room first, then the kitchen and bedrooms. 

Clay is just as chatty as he had been on their first visit, asking Ian all about his job at the clinic and his new responsibilities. 

“It’s all clerical and like check-ins and scheduling and vacuuming. I make sure the plants in the waiting room don’t die. I can’t… patient care isn’t something I get to do. At least not now.”

“But you like it?” Clay asks, and Mickey thinks that in his whole life, Terry never once asked him if he liked anything about his life in a way that sounded like he cared.

“Yeah,” Ian says, and he glances over at Mickey for a moment with that little half smile. “Yeah, it’s cool.”

Mickey’s pretty fucking in love with this asshole.

After that, they clear out the last of the shit in the basement and get it all in the truck.

They end up out front. Mickey’s sprawled out on the lawn having a smoke; Clay’s on the front stoop sitting next to Ian. 

“Hungry? I’ve got a take-and-bake pizza that I can pop in the oven.”

Mickey’s stomach grumbles as he takes a drag. “Those are the bomb. Way better than frozen.” He eyes Ian, who keeps giving Clay these _looks_ , like he’s trying to decide if he’s worth it. He’s been doing it all morning. 

“Pizza okay with you, Ian?” Clay asks. 

“Yeah, sounds good.” Ian smiles a little too enthusiastically for Mickey’s liking. 

When Clay disappears inside, Ian watches him go over his shoulder, then darts over and reaches out his hand to pull Mickey up.

Mickey flicks his cigarette into Clay’s shrubbery and lets himself get dragged to his feet.

“I’m definitely gonna ask him,” Ian whispers. Mickey’s heart thuds. 

“Today?” 

“Yeah, why not?”

Mickey’s brain struggles to come up with a reason. “I don’t know, man. The dude’s already moving… and his divorce?”

Ian’s face scrunches up in a way that Mickey absolutely hates; it’s the face he makes when he feels let down. 

“Do you think I shouldn’t ask him?” he asks. 

Mickey sighs. “Fuck. No, I don’t think that...” 

Clay sticks his head out the door and says, “You both like pepperoni?” so Mickey shuts his mouth and tries to look casual.

“Yeah, fine by me,” Ian says, a little too cheerfully again, and Mickey smiles and nods. “Yum.”

“Okay, good.” Clay looks curiously back and forth between them before withdrawing back into the house. 

Mickey’s pretty sure they are gonna have to explain something to Clay soon. “He’s gonna think we’re trying to scam him or something. We look fucking shady out here.” 

“Why don’t you want Clay to do the test?” Ian asks, like the laser-focused fuckhead he is. 

“Shit, Ian, I don’t…” he starts, and then the ridiculousness of the situation hits Mickey square between the eyes. None of this is worth getting into with Ian when they actually want the same damn thing. Frustrated energy surges through his skin. 

“Fuck, fine. Here.” Mickey grabs the envelope from his pocket and thrusts it at Ian. “You don’t need to ask him.”

Ian stares at the envelope like it might explode. “What is that?”

“It was supposed to be for your birthday. I already asked.” Mickey can’t bring himself to look Ian in the eye, scared of what he might see.

“What?”

“He did a test.”

“You got me a DNA test for my birthday?” 

“Well, not anymore, genius. I’ll have to get you something the fuck else now.” Mickey wants to punch someone.

“You did that?”

Mickey hears his voice get unnecessarily loud. “I _thought_ it was what you wanted.”

“It _is_!”

“Well then, fucking _perfect_!”

The envelope is still in Mickey’s hand, held out towards Ian. He swallows and offers it again, heart pounding.

“You want it?”

They stare at each other, breathless for a moment. Ian bites at his lip and takes a big breath. He reaches out his hand like he's approaching a strange dog and gently takes the envelope from Mickey’s grasp. Mickey stays silent, watching Ian carefully unfold the crumbled paper. 

Ian stops and gives Mickey a withering look. “Mickey, this envelope is open.” 

“Fuck right it is.” Mickey gets out his pack of smokes to light up another one. His hands need something to do. “I wasn’t about to hand that to you if I didn’t know what it said.”

“You know what this says?” Ian asks, his voice very soft.

“Yeah.” Mickey’s known for three days. He lights up and takes a long drag. 

Ian just stares at him but it doesn’t have much heat to it anymore. He pulls the paper from out of the envelope and unfolds it. Mickey’s body has to move; he paces a few steps away and back to shake out the nerves that continue to vibrate through his limbs.

Ian goes all still and quiet as he reads the results. After a long moment he says, his voice a little shaky, “I didn’t think I’d actually care this much.”

“Shit, you okay?” 

Ian nods, but Mickey can see that he is fighting not to cry. 

“Ian. You fucking good?” Mickey stubs out his cigarette on his shoe and approaches, needing to get his hands on him somehow, even though he’s not sure if that's what Ian wants. 

“Does he know?” Ian asks, looking up at Mickey with so much feeling in his damn face that Mickey feels his own eyes fill with tears. 

“No. Wanna tell him?” 

A hint of a smile tickles at the corner of Ian’s lips. “Yeah. I do.”

They sit down on the stoop, shoulder-to-shoulder, to wait for Clay to come out. Ian presses in against Mickey’s side and Mickey leans in until their heads touch. 

For some reason, Mickey find himself thinking about Yevgeny again.

*


	4. Phone

*

When Clay calls them into the kitchen for the pizza, Ian simply hands Clay the test results without preamble.

“What’s this?” he says with a smile, but then his expression grows more serious as he reads. Mickey stays in the doorway to give them some space.

Clay looks up at Ian and says, “Well, there it is.”

Ian nods. His hands are deep in his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. Mickey watches, wanting to be there for him and also wanting to disappear.

Mickey glances at Clay’s face and thinks about Ian saying _I didn’t think I’d actually care that much_. He wonders if maybe Clay’s thinking the same thing. He looks like he might be.

After a quiet moment, Clay says, “Is it okay if I hug you?” 

Ian lets out an audible breath, like he’d been holding it. He nods. 

When Clay steps towards him, Ian steps in as well. 

*

They eat their pizza sitting on the floor of the empty living room.

“So Mickey, this son-in-law title is official now,” Clay says as he passes him a plate.

Ian, still appearing a bit shell-shocked, lets out a little snuffling laugh through his bite of pizza and looks at Mickey like he’s trying to be reassuring. He seems to be doing okay. Mickey, however, is not exactly sure how to navigate this moment, and really wants a cigarette. 

“Shit, I guess so,” Mickey says. “I mean, I’m a felon who can’t leave the state and doesn’t have a fucking birthday present for my husband, but good for you.”

Clay smiles Ian’s damn half-smile again. “From experience, I don’t recommend ordering flowers at the last minute. He’ll see right through that.”

“Oh I see. Now you get to shower us with gift-giving advice?” Mickey asks, taking a big bite of his pizza.

Clay nods and takes a swig of his beer, a little glint in his eye. “I think that’s how this works.” 

Mickey reminds himself that, no matter his address, this man is one hundred percent a Gallagher.

“Shit, man.” 

Clay laughs and levers himself up off the floor. “I’ll get us all another piece,” he says, heading back to the kitchen. 

When he’s out of the room, Ian leans over and brushes a soft, smiley kiss onto Mickey’s cheek. “ _Husband_ ,” he whispers in his ear. 

Mickey’s not entirely sure, but he thinks this might be a really fucking good day.

*

The rest of the afternoon has a bizarre lightness to it. They drive the moving truck over to Clay’s new place a couple of miles away. It’s in the little downtown area of whatever the hell suburb they’re in, _Elm Grove_ or _Oakfield_ or _Treesarefuckinghere, USA_ , Mickey can’t keep track. The place is over a cafe and the stairs up are narrow, but between the three of them, they get Clay’s stuff unloaded in a few hours.

During one of Mickey’s smoke breaks outside, his phone buzzes. 

**Fiona** _Just got three really confusing texts from Ian. Everything okay?_

Mickey rolls his eyes at the screen, trying to imagine what the hell Ian has texted her.

**Mickey** _Yeah, he’s good. He’ll call you later._

**Fiona** _Okay. He better._

**Mickey** _I’ll make him_

**Fiona** _Good luck with that. Take care of him, okay?_

**Mickey** _He’s fucking fine. You can chill._

**Fiona** _Thanks Mickey_

**Mickey** _Not doing it for you. But you’re welcome._

*

When they finish, Clay insists on driving them all the way home. 

It’s quiet for most of the way, Clay’s usual chattiness replaced with a contemplative silence. The air is full of thinking; Mickey can sense all of their wheels turning. He finds himself staring at the back of Ian’s long neck in the seat in front of him, then looking over at Clay to see if the shape is the same. Then ears. Jawline. _Genetics are cool,_ he thinks.

They drive through the long springtime dusk. 

Ian's voice gently navigates their last few miles until they pull up in the front of the Gallagher house. It’s gotten dark. 

Clay stares out the windshield at the house. “This is Aunt Ginger’s.” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I’ve lived here most of my life.”

“I’d completely forgotten about this place. My god. I haven’t thought of it in years.”

“You wanna come in?” Ian asks. Mickey looks out too and considers how many memories he has at this house himself. Thinks of all of the years of family that Ian and Clay must see when they look at that porch light, that chain link.

Clay shakes his head. “No. I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” It’s the first time since reading the DNA results that Mickey hears any kind of hesitation in Clay’s voice.

“Sure,” Ian says.

“The old girl still alive?” 

“Who?” 

“Aunt Ginger?”

Ian shakes his head. “Nah, she died years ago.”

Clay nods, still looking out at the house. “Frank live here, too?”

Ian shrugs. “Not really.”

“Frank doesn’t _live_ anywhere,” Mickey offers from the back. “He just has places he sleeps.”

Clay hasn’t turned off the car. 

“Ian,” he says, his voice suddenly full of feeling. Mickey feels that stone settle into his guts at the tone. “Nothing has to change. I want you to know that. It’s up to you.”

Mickey wishes he could see Ian’s face, but he’s stuck in the back seat, his fingers itching. 

“We came to find you,” Ian says. “We’re not just gonna leave again.”

Mickey’s heart rockets around at his casual use of _we_.

Clay peers over at Ian and then twists in his seat to look back at Mickey, his face shadowed. 

“I ain’t going anywhere,” Mickey says, hoping he’s helping and not making anything harder. “You always feed me too fucking well.”

“Mick does like food,” Ian adds.

Clay puts one hand to his mouth and Mickey can’t tell if he’s trying to disguise that he’s smiling or crying. 

“We’ll call you next week. See how the new place is working out,” Ian says. 

Clay nods. 

“Thanks for the ride, man,” Mickey says, opening the car door and breathing in the cool evening air. 

Ian takes another minute to step out of the car. As Mickey lights up, out of the corner of his eye he can see Ian and Clay saying something more to each other, then leaning into an awkward, seatbelted hug before Ian gets out. 

Together they stand on the steps and watch Clay drive away. Ian’s arm tucks in neatly around Mickey’s shoulders and Mickey drops his free hand into the back pocket of Ian’s jeans, thankful for some contact after the long car ride. 

“I don’t know what you texted to your sister, but you better fucking call her when we get inside,” Mickey mentions as they watch Clay’s car turn out of sight. 

Ian reaches over and snatches the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers. “I will,” he says, taking a drag.

“You getting hungry?” 

Suddenly, Ian reels Mickey in, pulling him up against his chest. Mickey grabs on to Ian’s waist to keep his balance just as Ian fucking buries him in an unexpected kiss. Mickey scrambles to catch up, softening his lips and trying to find the moment.

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters when Ian lets him come up for air. “What they hell was that for?”

“I felt so fucking married to you today, Mick.”

Mickey feels his face flood with heat. “Yeah.” That’s the feeling he’s been having since breakfast, though he didn’t know how to name it. 

Ian’s eyes dart up at something over Mickey’s shoulder. His eyebrows raise. “Liam’s watching out the window.”

“Little perv,” Mickey says with a grin. 

“I guess we should go in and tell them.” Ian hasn’t let Mickey go, even a little.

“Whenever you’re ready, asshole.” 

*

Mickey’s been included in various Gallagher family meetings over the years. As far as dramatics go, this one is pretty low key. Ian shows his siblings the test results and makes a nice little speech about how none of it changes a thing about how he feels about them or about being their brother. Liam slides up on the sofa and sits right up against Ian’s side as he talks. Debbie asks if they can meet Clay. Lip sits on the edge of the chair with his hands folded over his knees, and when Ian finishes talking, he stands up and hugs him. 

Mickey hovers at the doorway to the kitchen, getting some water boiling for pasta and listening.

The more he watches Ian’s confident, tranquil face the more he feels a tightness growing in his own chest, like a fist gripping at his heart. 

*

Mickey retreats up to their room with a couple of beers as soon as he can get away. 

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through to the number he’s been thinking about all day.

After a half hour or so, Ian hops in the door, still loose and happy. “Where’d you disappear to?” he asks, plopping down on the bed next to Mickey. 

Mickey puts his phone face down on his chest. “Nothing.”

Ian’s hand drifts into Mickey’s hair and the tightness in Mickey’s chest grows. 

“Got off the phone with Fiona,” Ian says. “She really had decided I’d lost it. Got her calmed down. Told her about Clay.”

Mickey nods, only partially listening. “Great.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” Ian’s voice shifts. “You okay, Mick?” 

Mickey feels like his chest is filled with cement. He picks up his phone and holds it out to Ian. He has four pictures of Yevgeny on there. His favorite one is the oldest, of baby Yevgeny being held by Ian, but there are also two that Kev sent him, and one that Svetlana sent, probably to make him feel bad, while he was locked up. He’d never taken a picture of Yev himself.

He’s a little boy now, and Mickey knows that in an old photo album back home there are pictures from his childhood that look almost exactly the same. 

Ian takes the phone and scrolls through the photos, his brows pulled together. 

“I have to call Svetlana,” Mickey explains, and it’s a relief to say it out loud.

“I didn’t know you’ve been thinking about him.”

Mickey takes a long pull on his beer. “He shouldn’t have to track me down when he’s fucking twenty-four.”

Ian slides his body closer to Mickey’s on the bed and rests one hand on his stomach. “What are you thinking?”

The squeezing in Mickey's chest loosens just a little. “I wanna know that he’s my kid. And if he is, I wanna fucking _know_ him, you know.” Time hasn’t made any of it easier, but he knows a few things now that he didn’t when he was nineteen. “It wasn’t his fault.”

Ian’s eyes look so sad. “Wasn’t yours either,” he says, stroking Mickey’s belly. “Or mine.”

Mickey tries really hard to believe him. He rests one hand on top of Ian’s. “Shit,” is all he can manage to say.

“Svetlana hates me, Mick, but if I can help, I will. I love that kid.” 

“You gotta take care of yourself, Ian. Seeing her, seeing the kid. It could be a fucking shitshow.”

“I’m doing okay so far.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mickey scoots over to nestle even more snugly against Ian, overwhelmed again with this sense of being on the same side. 

They lie there quietly for a few minutes, Ian's hand gently rubbing circles on Mickey's belly until the painful clamp on his chest is totally gone. 

With his mind less clouded, Mickey can hear music seeping up from the living room. "Everyone still fucking around downstairs?" he asks. 

Ian's eyebrows raise in surprise. "You wanna go down?"

Mickey shrugs. "Could use another beer." 

Ian leans in for a smacking kiss and then pulls Mickey to his feet. "Me too, husband."

_Husband_ , Mickey whispers to himself. 

Ian doesn't let go of his hand.

*


	5. Volvo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adding a few more chapters to this thing! Here's a new one.

*

Things slow down after that, which Mickey is fine with to be honest. His chest aches when he imagines actually hitting call on Svetlana’s number. When he doesn’t contact her immediately the next day, Ian doesn’t say anything about it. Then the next two days slip by. Then a week. He dreams about Yevgeny at night, and passes his long hours flagging construction traffic imagining what might happen when he does call. That is, when he’s not plotting about how he can make bank from all of the sloppy tool storage on the work site.

In a panic, Mickey gives in and texts Fiona for help to replace his foiled birthday surprise for Ian. She knows some running shoes that Ian wants and he and Debbie go in on them together. It’s massively unromantic, which Mickey is shocked to discover really bothers him. Ian loves his shoes though; when he opens the package he gets that soft look on his face that makes Mickey vibrate, so he thinks he did okay. Tami bakes him a crazy-ass cake, since she’s been all into these YouTube tutorials on cake decorating. There’s a pound of chalky fondant on it, but it tastes pretty decent inside. Ian blows out the candles and he’s a year older.

They don’t see Clay, though Ian sends him texts and he sends back pictures of his new place, now all set up, boxes mostly gone. 

“Maybe we should go out to see him soon?” Ian asks when they are curled up in front of the television. 

“Whenever,” Mickey says.

It’s easy to believe that none of it actually happened. Or mattered.

Then, one afternoon, there’s a knock on the door.

*

Ian’s at work, but Mickey is home, along with Liam who is hiding out in the boys’ bedroom upstairs doing god knows what (probably reading). Mickey really doesn’t want to get up and deal with shit, but whoever is pounding on the door is not showing any signs of giving up.

“Hold your fucking horses, Jesus,” Mickey says as he swings the door open.

It’s eerie, his first look at the kid standing on the porch. He thinks for a brief moment that Ian is home early, but no. This kid is taller and skinny as a pole, how Ian might look if he had never done a pull up in his life or gone for run or possibly even lifted anything heavier than a pencil. He has Ian’s bright hair and those same fucking eyes, but the rest of his face is off in many little ways: thin nose, pointed chin, way less freckles. He’s kind of gangly, like puberty isn’t quite finished with him yet. Nonetheless, it doesn’t take a crystal ball to figure out who this kid is.

“I’m looking for Ian Gallagher.” The voice is wrong too, of course. He sounds like a junior newscaster or something.

“Yeah, no shit,” Mickey says, trying not to panic. He’s way out of his depth with this one.

“Is he here?”

“He’s at work. You Jacob?”

The kid has the nerve to look shocked. “How did you know that?”

“I got fucking eyes in my head,” Mickey says. He’s not sure if it is possible for the kid’s face to get redder, but it tries. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m Mickey. Your pop tell you about me, too?” 

Jacob Gallagher swallows hard but doesn’t say anything. Mickey takes that as a yes. His heartbeat echoes in his ears. 

“You got a problem with me?” 

Jacob shakes his head a little. “No.”

“Damn right, you don’t.”

Mickey crosses his arms, hoping he’s looking suitably menacing even though he has no fucking clue what to do with this lost puppy standing awkwardly on the porch.

“Your dad know you’re here? Aren’t you supposed to be taking calculus or cartography or something and being a good little future rich asshole somewhere?”

Jacob’s expression changes at that, hardens, like Mickey’s seen from Ian a thousand times when he’s had enough of his shit. “No one knows I’m here. I just drove four hours. I have a lab due for orgo tomorrow at nine a.m. Where’s Ian?”

Mickey takes in a few more details, like that he’s got a quality laptop backpack on and that his t-shirt says _Don’t trust atoms. They make up everything_. Goddamn Gallaghers. “Calm down, kid. Don’t lose your shit. Come in. Want a beer?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Good for you. You want a beer?” Mickey heads back towards the kitchen, leaving Jacob hovering awkwardly at the door. 

“When will Ian be back?”

“Not soon enough that you should just stand at the door until then,” Mickey yells from the kitchen, digging two more beers from the back of the fridge. They need to go shopping. 

When he walks back out, Jacob is hovering just inside the living room, the door closed behind him. 

“Um, can I use the bathroom?” he asks.

“Knock yourself out. It’s through the kitchen.” Mickey plops back down on the couch, puts down the beers, and grabs the game controller he’d dropped to answer the door. “Playing Call of Duty if you wanna join.” He’d been missing Ian.

“I… okay. Maybe,” Jacob says, putting down his bag. He watches Mickey play for a minute, then heads off towards the bathroom. 

When he drifts back into the room a few minutes later, Mickey glances up from his game to see that Jacob is over at the mantelpiece looking closely at the Gallagher photos. 

“You see a picture of Ian before?” Mickey asks without pausing the game.

Jacob shakes his head. He’s staring at the wedding picture Ian had framed and added to the array. “You guys are married,” he says. 

“Yep,” Mickey says with a grin. 

“He looks like my dad,” Jacob says after a minute. 

“He really fucking does.” 

“And I guess these are my cousins?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Again, Mickey finds himself wishing that he wasn’t the one having the heart-to-heart. “You gonna play, or what?” 

“Sure, yeah.” Jacob takes the far end of the sofa and grabs a controller. “But only until Ian gets here.”

Mickey’s been in a lot of weird situations in his life, but this is starting to feel like one of weirdest. “Whatever, man.”

*

About an hour passes. Mickey gets them each one more beer, but otherwise they just focus on the game. It’s pretty chill actually, Mickey thinks. Seems like an okay kid, so long as he doesn’t look at him too much. He’s obviously played a lot of Call of Duty. 

Ian trundles in the door eventually, carrying two bags of groceries and his work shit. “I’m home! Got some stuff for sloppy joes tonight!”

“We’re right fucking here, Ian.” Mickey says, pausing the game and standing up to help, his heart rate suddenly making itself known. 

“Hey,” Ian says as Mickey approaches, and he leans over to kiss him on the cheek. “Glad to be home.”

“Uh, Ian,” Mickey says as he takes one of the bags Ian’s handing him. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Mickey watches the play of emotions that pass across Ian’s face as he looks over to see Jacob on the sofa, staring back at him: curiosity, wonder, confusion, excitement. Mickey wants to hold Ian’s hand, but his arms are full. 

“Oh my god,” Ian says, setting down his stuff on the stairs, his eyes huge. “Are you Jacob?”

Mickey has never been a big texter; a lifetime of experiences taught him that it’s a bad idea to leave a written record behind. It occurs to him, though, that this would have been a perfect moment to text Ian ahead of time to let him know what was going on. Shit.

“Yeah, he just fucking drove down here and knocked on the door.”

“Wow, man, that’s…” Ian starts. He doesn’t get to finish his thought though, because Jacob stands up, strides over, and punches Ian in the face. 

More accurately, Mickey thinks, he punches him in the side of the skull. It’s not a pretty punch, leading from the elbow, and doesn’t have much power behind it. It looks like it hurts Jacob’s fist as much as it hurts Ian’s head. 

Mickey’s so stunned by this turn of events that he doesn’t even have time to react before Jacob grabs Ian by the shoulders and knees him right in the balls. Unlike the punch, this hit lands. Ian huffs in pain and curls up onto himself. 

In a hysterical tone, Jacob yells, “Stay away from my family!” and runs out the front door, still open from Ian’s arrival. 

Ian looks up at Mickey as he slowly crumples, his face pale. “Ow, ow. Ow.”

Mickey is so furious he’s momentarily frozen. “What the fuck was that? That little shit’s been sitting here drinking beers with me for an hour!”

“That was Jacob, right?” Ian asks, huffing out breaths and grabbing at the back of the sofa for support. 

Mickey puts down the grocery bag he’s hefting and darts over to get his arms around Ian’s chest. “Fucking dramatic Gallaghers, Jesus.”

Ian remains doubled over. “Go get him, Mick. Please.” 

Ian’s tone leads Mickey to believe that by “get him” he’s asking him to retrieve the kid and bring him back inside, not beat the snot out of him like he wants to. 

“I’m on it.” 

Mickey pats Ian on the back and dashes out the door. Looking up and down the street, he catches sight of Jacob slamming the door on an older model Volvo like he’s about to drive away. Mickey sprints down the stairs, hops the fence, and runs to the passenger side of the car. Then, because he can’t think of what else to do, he opens the car door and hops in with him. 

Jacob has his hand on the key. He looks over at Mickey, his eyes huge and terrified. He’s breathing hard. 

“Going somewhere?”

“Get out of my car.”

“No.”

Jacob doesn’t seem to have an answer for that. He just breathes and looks scared. 

“So this was your master plan?” Mickey asks, still trying to keep himself from decking the kid. “Drive here, punch Ian in the face, and then leave? Brilliant plan.”

Jacob stares out the windshield. “I’ve never punched anyone before.”

“Yeah, idiot. We know.”

Jacob looks over at Mickey, and Mickey gets the distinct impression that the kid might start to cry. 

“Is he okay?”

“You kneed him in the nuts, moron.”

“I don’t need a brother.”

“Well, shit. Neither does he. He’s got three already.”

“I don’t need any of this crap in my life!”

Jacob gets quiet again. Mickey stares at his familiar, unfamiliar profile, trying to figure out what Ian would want him to say.

“Brothers ain’t so fucking bad. What’ve you got against brothers?” 

Jacob remains silent.

"I really don't wanna have to show you what a punch actually looks like, kid," Mickey says, every damn atom in his body still ready to lay into this kid.

“They sold the house,” Jacob says, his voice cracking. “Where I grew up. I can’t even go back home.”

Things start clicking together in Mickey’s head; Clay and divorce and a long-lost sibling. His fists unclench and his shoulders drop. Mickey’d punch someone in the face too if he could never go home again, even with all the shit that went down in that place. “Oh,” Mickey says, “yeah, that blows.” 

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Think you might be pissed at the wrong person?” Mickey asks. 

“Probably,” Jacob says, his voice quiet. 

Maybe it’s because the kid looks so much like Ian, but Mickey’s desire to deck him fades even further. Or maybe it’s because this sad kid is actually Ian’s brother, and Mickey needed this moment to really believe that. 

“My dumbass husband wants to give you a second chance for some reason,” Mickey says. "You still gonna just drive off?"

Jacob shakes his head. “I shouldn’t drive. I’ve had two beers. And I left my backpack inside.”

“Why’d you bring your backpack if all you were gonna do was punch Ian in the face?”

“I didn’t want to leave it in the car.”

Jesus. This kid.

At that moment, the back door of the Volvo opens and Ian slides into the back seat.

“Hey, mind if I join the party?”

Mickey can see Jacob’s shoulders rise back up, his grip on the steering wheel tighten. He sits facing front and doesn’t turn to look at Ian at all. 

Mickey gives Jacob a pointed look before twisting in his seat to face Ian. 

“How’re yer nuts, man?” Mickey asks.

Ian’s face is still pale and his expression full of questions. “Not great,” he says. “But I’ll survive.”

Mickey leans over and punches Jacob in the shoulder, just hard enough that he has to react. “That’s for messing with my man’s junk,” he says. “I took a vow to defend that shit.”

“Is that what our vows said?” Ian mutters with a little smile.

Jacob doesn’t laugh or react. He rubs at his arm and looks at Mickey. “Sorry.” He turns to Ian but doesn’t really look at him. “I’m Clay’s son. Jacob,” he says. 

“I know.” Ian smiles his little half-smile and Mickey wants to kiss the bastard so damn much. “I guess we might have some shit to talk about, huh? I didn’t even know your dad had told you about me.”

“Your dad, you mean,” Jacob says, a bitter bite in his tone that makes Mickey's fists curl again. 

Ian shrugs it off. “Nah. Not the way he’s your dad.”

Jacob looks at Ian like he can't quite understand what he's said at first, then takes a deep breath and says, “Yeah?”

“Of course, man.”

Jacob’s whole body changes, like a wave that rolls down his body and into his fingers and toes. He releases his grip on the steering wheel and puts both hands over his eyes.

Ian’s gaze meets Mickey’s and Mickey doesn’t know what else to do but let his hands relax again and nod him some encouragement. 

“I can make us dinner if you wanna come back in,” Ian says. “No hard feelings.”

Mickey looks back and forth between these two soft idiots having their moment, a weird warmth in his chest. 

“How can there be no hard feelings?” Jacob asks from behind his hands. “I kicked you in the groin.”

Mickey tries to keep a straight face at ‘groin’; he fails. “Dude,” he says, smiling, “in this family, a kick is as good as a hug most days.”

“Just come in already,” Ian says, looking at Mickey with an affectionate shake of his head that pools even more warmth into Mickey's chest. Ian opens the car door and slides out. 

Mickey stays put in his seat until Jacob looks up from his hands and pockets his keys.

Mickey isn't sure what to do, so he says the first thing that comes into his head. "I know I'm biased, but you really fucking lucked out in the surprise brother department, kid."

"I don't know what to do with a brother," Jacob says quietly, staring at him hands.

Mickey punches him in the shoulder again. "Jesus. Family ain't rocket science, college boy. You'll figure it out."

Getting Jacob to step out of the car feels like a victory.

As they walk back down the sidewalk together in the chilly spring breeze, Ian asks, “Did you really drive all the way here from Ann Arbor to punch me?” 

Jacob reluctantly nods. 

“That’s impressive,” Ian says. 

Mickey snorts. “Going all-in on a batshit idea with no real plan? You two are definitely related.”

Ian and Jacob both smile at that one.

When they get back to the front stairs, Liam is standing on the porch, protective arms folded over his chest, still holding his book. “Who’s that?” he asks.

Before Ian or Mickey can answer him, Jacob responds. “I’m Ian’s brother.”

Mickey can’t see Ian’s face at that moment, but he hopes he’s smiling.

*

Mickey hangs back on the porch while Ian and Liam lead Jacob inside. The warm feeling in his chest hasn’t left him. 

Before he thinks about it too hard, he pulls his phone from his pocket, brings up the same number he’s stared at all week, and hits call. 

The phone rings for long enough to get Mickey’s heart rate up again. When she finally picks up, there’s only silence.

“Svetlana. Don’t hang up.”

“What do you want?” Mickey hasn’t heard that icy voice in years. It makes his stomach churn, but he powers on.

“I want to stop being an asshole to my kid,” he says. It’s the truth. 

She doesn’t reply for what feels like an eternity. Mickey can hear her faint breathing just enough to know that she’s still on the line.

“I’m listening,” she says at last. 

*


	6. Reflection

*

“Fuck, we’re married, Svetlana. He’s gonna meet the kid again sometime.”

Mickey hears the front door open behind him. He’s been on the phone with Svetlana for several minutes now, negotiating, so on edge that he jumps a bit at the sound and quickly glances back to see who’s there. It’s Ian (of course it is) peeking around the door, his brows drawn and questioning, just as Svetlana says, “Not without me.”

Mickey can’t meet Ian’s worried gaze. He turns around and locks his own arm across his chest, staring out at the street. “You can trust him. He’s fine now. He’s on his meds. He’s got a job. He probably even remembers all that fucking Russian you taught him.”

The door clicks shut, and Mickey wonders for a second if Ian’s gone back inside, but then a familiar arm snakes around his waist and Ian’s sturdy body presses into his back, holding on. Warm breath ghosts against the side of Mickey’s neck, tickling the skin there. It feels so fucking good to have his support, and like utter shit that Ian is overhearing any of this. 

Svetlana’s quiet on the line again, so Mickey adds, “We both know what to look for now so things don’t get bad.”

Ian’s arm tightens for a moment around Mickey’s body. 

“You really marry him?” Her voice is softer now.

“Yeah, of course.” 

“You love him?” 

Mickey flushes. Jesus, of all people, Svetlana shouldn’t have to ask that. “Yeah, fuck. I love him. What’d you think?” he says. He’s almost out of patience with this fucking conversation. 

Ian brushes a soft kiss against Mickey’s throat. 

Facing another silence on the phone, Mickey adds, “So?”

“Fine,” Svetlana says suddenly, her voice all business. “Next Friday, meet at park, four o’clock. You and Carrot Boy. And cash. I bring Yevgeny.” 

“Good. Okay,” Mickey says, then repeats, so that Ian can hear it, “Friday at four. Both of us.” He leans back against Ian’s chest. Ian holds on.

“Be on time,” Svetlana says, and then ends the call. 

Mickey pulls the phone from his ear, exhausted. 

Ian’s other arm curls around him and pulls him in close, his chin tucked on Mickey’s shoulder. “I didn’t know where you were,” he says quietly in Mickey’s ear. 

_Family ain't rocket science,_ he’d said to Jacob, only a few minutes ago. Maybe that was all bullshit.

“She’s okay with it. Seeing the kid again, doing the test,” Mickey says, still convincing himself that it’s true.

“But not with me.” Ian’s voice is resigned.

Mickey rotates himself around in Ian’s arms so he can see him, get his hands on either side of that big ol’ jaw and look him in the eye. “If she’d said no to you, I would go anyway. But I want you there so fucking bad. You were a better dad to him than I ever was.”

Ian leans down so their foreheads touch. Mickey closes his eyes and breathes for a moment. He feels a light kiss on the tip of his nose. 

Ian pulls back a little and says, “I think we need to go inside and save Liam. He’s in charge of Jacob right now.”

“Shit, if it ain’t one thing, huh?”

“We’re definitely having a day.” Ian’s little half smile looks tired, but genuine. 

*

Debbie’s the first to get home, Franny in tow. Her face when Ian introduces her to Jacob is a fucking comedy; Mickey didn’t know that a person’s jaw could drop quite so literally. Carl plays it much more cool when he arrives, casual head nod greeting and then off to the fridge for a beer, like new cousins wander into the house every damn week.

Mickey ends up making the sloppy joes so that Ian and Jacob can hang out with everyone. The conversation veers from college life to chemistry to video games to family photos to making Ian and Jacob stand shoulder to shoulder so that Debbie can name, in increasingly awed tones, all of the ways they look alike. 

Ian doesn’t call Lip to come over, which Mickey notices but doesn’t comment on for now. 

It gets late enough that Ian convinces Jacob to crash on the sofa and do the drive back to campus the next day. 

“My lab’ll be late, but fuck that,” Jacob slurs loud enough for to Mickey overhear from the kitchen where he’s doing the dishes. When Mickey counts back, the kid’s probably had five beers.

“You need to sleep, man,” Ian says in reply.

Mickey walks out to the living room a few minutes later and Ian has set Jacob up on the sofa. It looks like he’d passed out the minute his face hit the pillow. 

“Aww, little guy tuckered himself out rage driving here to fight you,” Mickey says, trying to laugh off the day. He’s still weirdly out of sorts, wishes he could go and shoot a few rounds to get some of the energy out of his fingers. Instead of laughing, though, Ian grabs Mickey’s hands and brings them both to his lips, kissing each of his fingertips like he knows or some shit. 

“Come to bed with me, Mickey Milkovich,” he whispers into Mickey’s palm. 

*

It’s just a normal Tuesday night, but something has shifted that Mickey feels in his bones. Once they are in their room, Ian stops Mickey from taking his own clothes off to get into bed; he pulls Mickey into a deep kiss and says, “Let me do that,” his warm hands up under Mickey’s shirt and all over his skin. 

Mickey directs the crackling intensity in his fingers into popping open the buttons of Ian’s jeans. Neither of them seem interested in letting their kiss end, so they fight through awkwardly stripping each other until they can crawl into bed naked and still kissing. Mickey can’t get enough of it. Mickey shifts and slides to get every part of his skin against Ian’s- legs entangled, hips pressed close, belly to belly- until he feels his body settle and calm. 

He leans in for one more nuzzling kiss and then says, “You gonna call Clay tomorrow and tell him about all this shit with Jacob?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Ian hums against Mickey’s cheek. “Tomorrow you gonna tell me more about what Svetlana said?”

“Yep.” Mickey nips at Ian’s earlobe. 

They get lost in a kiss again for a minute, in the warm press of skin. 

Mickey lets his hand drift down Ian’s torso until he can gently stroke his dick. “You okay now? No permanent damage?”

“Good so far,” Ian grins. 

“What about here?” Mickey reaches back to get his fingers all over Ian’s nuts. 

Ian immediately crumples and pulls away. “Ugh, spoke too soon.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Still aches? Fuck that kid.”

“He’s got the bony Gallagher knees. Ow,” Ian says, rearranging his body against Mickey’s.

Mickey lets his hand retreat to a safe spot on the curve of Ian’s ass. There’s so much shit swirling around in him that he needs to say. 

“Svetlana wants some cash. I have a deal going at work that could make us some extra money. But I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.”

Ian pulls back to look Mickey in the eye. “How risky is it?”

“Not very. Dumbasses leave a lot of expensive shit lying around the work site is all. Got a potential buyer.”

“Don’t go back to prison, Mick.” Hand on Mickey’s cheek; Mickey rests against it. 

“I’ll just do the set up. It goes off right, I won’t even lose my fucking job.”

Ian’s foot slowly drags against Mickey’s calf in a lazy tease. “As long as you know I need you here with me,” he says against Mickey’s lips. “No big risks.”

“I know, tough guy.” This kiss is long and slow and full of too much for Mickey’s heart to handle. When Ian pulls away again, he can hardly breathe. 

“You wish I hadn’t started all of this?” Ian asks, his eyes so soft, hand gently stroking Mickey’s cheek. “Going to see Clay, getting all this family crap stirred up? Now we need money?”

Mickey shakes his head. He knows deep down he’s scared shitless that all of the drama will be too much for Ian to manage without a major swing, but he’s also sure they are all doing the right thing, even when it feels like getting kicked in the balls. “Nah, man. I’m into it.”

“Yeah?” Looking into Ian’s eyes, Mickey finds himself trying to burrow in even closer. Fuck. He curls in to run his lips along Ian’s throat as he asks the next question, which has been burning in his chest all evening.

“You gonna have Lip meet Jacob sometime?” 

After all of these years, it’s not hard to read Ian’s body. He stiffens for a moment, then softens again as Mickey’s lips continue working his way along his collarbone.

“Yeah,” he says. “Soon.”

“Like tomorrow soon?” Mickey asks, though he already knows the answer. 

Ian doesn’t reply, but he does shift over and capture Mickey’s lips again into another heated kiss, and Mickey decides they can leave that topic for the moment. 

“We gonna do this thing?” Ian pants when they come up for air. Mickey’s not sure if he’s asking about the next few minutes or the next few years, but either way, the answer is the same. 

“Fuck yeah.”

*

The receptionist at the genetics clinic doesn’t laugh when Mickey asks if they have a frequent customer discount, but Ian snorts and knocks his shoulder against Mickey’s side. They add the kit to the bag of gear they’ve packed for the park visit: blanket, sandwiches, beers and sodas, frisbee, DNA test kit. All the essentials.

“You ready for this, Mick?” Ian asks as they walk from the L. It’s still pretty cool out; they’re both in their nicest buttons-ups underneath a couple layers for warmth. Mickey spent way too long on his hair until Ian actually gave him shit about it.

“Hell no. You?” 

Ian drapes a long arm around Mickey’s shoulders as they walk and kisses the top of his head, and Mickey feels like he could do anything. 

Svetlana’s new neighborhood is populated entirely with people Mickey could scam in his sleep. No litter, lots of dogs and nannies and white people leaving their wallets hanging out of their strollers. The park is bustling with kids. It takes a few minutes for them to catch sight of Svetlana waiting on a bench beyond the big play structure. 

It’s been so many years, but Mickey still gets a sour taste in his throat when he sees her, a burp of rage and shame that has never really gone away since the fucked-up day she was forced into his life forever. The last time they’d spoken had been through glass, all business, setting up one more hit on a prison lowlife to keep her contacts happy and Mickey’s pockets lined. His steps falter for a moment but Ian is there to keep him going. 

“We’re not here for her, Mick,” Ian says, like the fucking mindreader he is. “Where’s Yev?”

Mickey looks at the writhing sea of kids playing on the play structure and finds him right away, towheaded little rat, climbing up a rope ladder like a champ. 

“There.” 

Ian follows his gaze and then smiles affectionately. “You have hair that blond when you were a kid?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says, staring at Yevgeny, a little boy now, his gut churning. “Just like that.”

Ian looks at him intently. “You wanna forget all this? We can just go,” Ian asks, and Mickey loves him so hard because he knows Ian would just turn around and leave immediately if Mickey wanted to. 

Mickey swallows down the bile. “Came this far. Come on.”

Svetlana fits right in with the moms surrounding her. She’s not wearing as much makeup anymore and her hair has the kind of streaky highlights that look like they came from an actual salon and not her own bathroom. She even smiles serenely as Mickey and Ian approach, and waves them over like they are old friends. 

Maybe that’s what they are? But Mickey still kind of wants to vomit. 

“You have money for me?” she says when they are close enough to hear. Not hello. 

Ian passes Svetlana the envelope they’d filled that morning with their tiny savings. She looks at him with her appraising, prying eyes, then quickly stashes it in her huge purse. “He does not remember you,” she says. “Today you are only friends. Until test comes back.”

Mickey nods. “Sure.” 

“You look good, Svetlana,” Ian says, his arms crossed. 

“You grew up,” she says back to him, expression her maddening neutral. 

Mickey eyes Svetlana’s designer bag and leather boots. “You whoring again or what? How the hell you living like this?” 

Svetlana doesn’t even flinch. “No more whoring. Married old bastard for money. Died in one year. His family make sure I am comfortable and out of their lives forever. All are content.”

Mickey can’t stop himself from nodding in appreciation. From where she’d started, she really couldn’t have done much better. 

Without warning, Yevgeny barrels in between them and into his mother’s lap, laughing breathlessly and speaking in rapid Russian. Svetlana listens and responds. Mickey hears his own name and Ian’s as she nods towards them both. Yevgeny eases in closer to his mother and stares up at both of them with wary blue eyes. Ian crouches down, smiles, and waves hello. 

Mickey’s not sure what he had been hoping for this time, maybe a thunderbolt to the heart or a choir of fucking angels, something to tell him that this kid is a part of him. But there’s nothing. Just a sour stomach and hands itching for a cigarette.

“I’m sure you don’t remember us, Yev,” Ian says in a sweet tone that grates on Mickey’s nerves. “We took care of you sometimes when you were a baby.”

Yev keeps his eye on Ian but also holds onto Svetlana’s neck and asks, “Can I play more, mama?” 

“Of course, zychik,” Svetlana says, patting him on the back before he runs off again into the fray on the slide. 

When he’s out of hearing, she asks, “You bring the test?”

Mickey nods. 

“Go have picnic, be married. When he returns from play, I will do.” 

Ian digs through the backpack and hands her the test kit. 

Svetlana turns her gaze to Mickey as she uses her manicured talons to slice open the box. “What you hope are results from this?”

A wave of nausea sweeps up through him and he has to wriggle his whole body to shake off the sensation. “Jesus. What the fuck do you think?” 

Ian’s looking at him way too seriously for his liking. 

Mickey kicks the ground. “Fuck. Is a guy allowed a smoke in this damn place?” Mickey can’t make himself look at either of these assholes. 

“No,” Svetlana says.

Ian grabs Mickey’s elbow and steers him away from Svetlana. “We’ll be over there, not smoking,” he says. 

Mickey can’t stop himself from pulling away from Ian’s grasp as he leads him across the grass towards the baseball fields, already shaking a cigarette from the pack.

*

“I shouldn’t be anyone’s dad,” Mickey mutters, half hoping that Ian doesn’t actually hear him.

They are on the train home, night falling, the completed test kit stowed safely in Ian’s backpack and Svetlana behind them again for now. Mickey has his back pressed in against Ian’s shoulder, foot up on the seat next to him to be sure no one can sit next to him. He doesn’t think he can stand to have anyone close to him right now, except Ian. 

“Bullshit,” Ian says. 

“Not bullshit. I couldn’t even speak to the kid.”

“That whole thing was super awkward, Mick. We hardly even got to see Yev.”

“You knew what to do.”

“I grew up helping to raise little kids. You _were_ the little kid in your family.”

“Fuck off, man, you don’t need to make me feel worse. How the hell would I even know what a good father does?” Mickey hears his voice get too loud, but he can’t do anything about it. “I’m just not cut out for that shit.”

Ian’s thoughtful little exhale at Mickey’s outburst is so infuriating Mickey almost storms up to find another seat.

“You any different now than when you were seventeen?” Ian asks.

Mickey frowns at him over his shoulder. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“How about since you were twenty?”

“What is up your ass? Forget I said anything. Christ.”

Ian brings his arm over Mickey’s shoulder and across his chest, pulling himself close so that his mouth is right by Mickey’s ear. 

“I’m just saying that people change. You change. I mean, look at us.” Ian nods towards their reflection in the darkness of the train window across from them. “What do you see?”

Mickey stares at the image that confronts him. His own hunched form leaned up against Ian’s lanky body, Ian's arm holding him close, wedding ring glinting in the light, right on the fucking L for anyone to see. Mickey realizes he hardly thinks about what other people see when they look at him anymore. Damn. It used to be all he thought about, ever. 

What he says is, “I see a couple of tired ass fags.”

Ian laughs and Mickey can see his smile in their reflection. “Can’t argue that.”

“What the hell’s your point, Gallagher?”

“Maybe you’ll be a great dad. Maybe not. But it’s not set in stone. You get to figure it out.” Then he adds, “Just cause our dads never did doesn’t mean you won’t.” 

Mickey can’t stop looking at their reflection in the glass. He imagines his own teenage self sitting across from them on the train, full of dirty, pent up sexual frustration and rage, watching these two men just casually hold onto each other like it’s nothing. Jesus, he would have been murderous and miserable and fucking _jealous_. 

Just to piss off his adolescent self, Mickey cranes over and kisses Ian's jaw where he can reach. 

He knows what’s really eating at him and he owes Ian the truth, not just all his fear and bullshit. 

“I don’t know what I want the test results to say,” Mickey admits. "About Yevgeny."

Ian’s lips brush against Mickey’s ear. “Whatever it says, we’ll deal with it.”

“Fuck you,” he whispers back. “Don’t make me say fucking flowery shit to you on the train.”

“Just go back to brooding,” Ian says with a little shove. 

Mickey flips him off and presses in closer. 

*

Mickey’s phone rings once they are home and Ian has headed up to take a shower. Mickey stares at the name on the phone for longer than he should. 

_Clay._

What the hell? He considers not answering, ‘cause the dude must have misdialed or something, but his finger hits answer before he can stop himself.

“This is Mickey,” he says, so Clay will realize his mistake. 

“Hey Mickey, glad I got you,” Clay says in his friendly tone. “How are you?”

Mickey frowns. “I’m...fine.” 

“Hey, Ian told me about Jacob’s surprise visit and I just wanted to say thanks. Whatever you did, I think it helped.”

“Yeah, okay. No problem,” Mickey says, eyeing the stairs and wishing Ian would appear to help him figure out what this hell this call is about. 

Ian does not appear. Instead, Clay invites Mickey and Ian out to his place later in the week to break in his new barbecue. That’s it. Mickey listens and nods and isn’t sure why he feels so unsettled.

After the call ends, he sits on the sofa with his phone on his knee until Ian wanders down, wet hair and loose sweatpants giving Mickey’s dick the finger. His fucking sexy ass husband.

After Mickey explains the phone call, Ian looks thoughtful. “Did he want anything else?” 

“No,” Mickey says. “That was it.”

Ian leans over and kisses Mickey’s hair fondly. “Not everyone is working an angle all the time, Mick. I think he just wants to have us over for dinner.”

Mickey imagines how quickly his teenage self would have called bullshit on that, and then remembers what Ian had said earlier. 

_People change. It’s not set in stone. You get to figure it out._

Mickey shakes himself and reaches for his beer. "I fucking love barbecue." 

*


	7. Shotgun

*

Mickey wakes up Sunday morning to Ian returning to their room from a run. 

“Sorry to wake you,” he says, pulling off his sweatshirt and leaning down to kiss Mickey’s bare shoulder. “Had some extra energy and couldn’t sleep, so thought I’d get out early.”

Mickey catalogs that news into the growing-mildly-concerned, trying-not-to-overreact file in his head, but keeps his worries to himself for now. 

“You stink, Gallagher,” he says instead.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go shower.” Ian continues to pull off his running clothes. Mickey rolls over onto his back and folds his hands behind his head to take in the show. “I think I’ll go over to Lip’s this morning when he gets back from his meeting. He’s working on the bathroom tiles.” Ian sits down on the edge of the bed to unlace his new shoes. Mickey pulls one of his hands free to rest on Ian’s thigh, since it’s right fucking there. 

“Want me to come?” 

Ian doesn’t look up as he says, “I think I need some time on my own with Lip.”

Mickey bites the inside of his cheek and hopes he doesn’t look too pleased that Ian’s finally getting off his ass to talk to his brother. “Fine. Less shit for me to do.”

“Should be home by lunch.” Ian tosses his socks into the hallway and stands up. 

Mickey leans over to the nightstand to grab his cigarettes. “If Lip makes you work too hard, just call me and I’ll come over and kick him in the balls.”

Ian flinches with a grin. “Oof, Mick. Too soon.”

Mickey throws a pillow at him, because, fuck, he really gets to wake up like this for the rest of his life. 

“Go take your shower, stinker.”

*

He ends up spending most of the morning on his phone, looking up a bunch of shit he’d been thinking about and falling down a few rabbit holes that he has to dig himself out of. Just before noon, Debbie hunts him down and begs him to watch Franny for a couple of hours so that she can take a job she’s been called for out of the blue. 

Franny wants to draw, so Mickey sets her up at the kitchen table and pulls out an ashtray. 

“Mind if I smoke, kid?” 

Franny shakes her head and says, “Will you draw with me?”

Mickey lights up and reaches for a piece of paper with a shrug. “Why the fuck not.”

Franny giggles.

Ian gets home in the early afternoon. “Cheese sliders. Lip’s treat,” he says, tossing a White Castle bag onto the counter. Franny runs to him and hugs his legs, and Ian lifts her up onto his hip. “Hungry, kiddo?” 

“Things go okay with him?” Mickey asks, putting down a marker and trying to sound casual. He gives Ian a quick once over to be sure he’s not limping or bleeding.

Ian plops down on a stool, settling Franny on his lap. “Yeah, it was good. Got to talk. I called Clay to see if Lip could come out with us to his place next weekend. He wants to.”

Mickey’s heart isn’t quite sure what to make of that. They’ll get the test results for Yevgeny on Thursday. It’s a lot. Mickey feels his chest tighten up. “You want that?”

“Yeah.”

Since Ian seems willing to talk, Mickey goes all in. “You talk to Lip about Jacob?”

Ian unwraps a burger and hands it to Franny. “Clay’s inviting him for Saturday, too. If he can come down again.”

“Shit, okay.” Jesus, apparently Ian and Clay are all in as well. 

Ian looks over at Mickey, his head cocked to one side. “Are you… coloring?” 

Mickey flips his paper over on the table. “Fuck off. So what if I am?”

“He drew me a princess castle and a dragon and a rainbow!” Franny yells. 

Mickey feels his cheeks flush. “Yeah, kid, and I also breathed a bunch of carcinogens in your face, so don’t be too happy about it.”

Franny giggles. Ian looks over at Mickey with so much of _something_ in his gaze that Mickey can’t take it. Ian kisses Franny’s cheek and puts her down, the little burger gripped in her hands. 

“I’m gonna go clean up in our room. Thinking I might rearrange if that’s okay with you. Maybe paint,” Ian says.

Mickey’s internal alarm system blares again. 

“You really okay?” Mickey asks, fidgeting with Franny’s markers. “With all the family shit?”

Ian’s expression shifts. He comes over and sits down facing Mickey. “You’re worried.”

“Just noticing a few things,” Mickey says, his heart pounding. 

Ian sits back and looks like he might actually be thinking things through for a minute. “Okay.”

“Can we do this room cleaning shit together, maybe?” 

Ian’s jaw sets and he looks Mickey right in the eye. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.” He reaches out and settles one of Mickey’s hands under his own warm fingers.

The fist in Mickey’s chest loosens up a bit. He looks over at Franny, her little elbows on the table, chewing her slider. 

Ian follows his gaze. “You gonna come upstairs with us, Franny-bear? We need an interior decorator with an eye for color.”

Franny giggles again. Mickey holds onto Ian’s hand for a moment longer than he needs to.

*

The week barrels along after that. Mickey works the crack-of-dawn shifts at the construction site, a block of old houses about a mile from home that have been leveled for a new multi-use building with seventy-eight units. His PO Larry helped set him up with the flagger job after he’d been let go from his mall gig due to ‘not fitting the company profile,’ according to the asshat teenager posing as store manager. No more lavender; now he spends his days in bright orange and a hardhat, encouraging pissed off drivers to flip him off and bullshitting over the walkie with Dashawn and Stella, the other two flaggers.

He’s stalled out on the deal he was putting together to rob the site. Ian’s voice plays in his head whenever he eyes yet another storage locker that hasn’t been properly secured: _I need you here with me._

Walking away from easy cash makes him weirdly restless, though.

He stops at the genetics lab to pick up the test results on the way home from work on Thursday afternoon. The unopened envelope feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket all the way home.

*

Mickey hears Ian get home before he sees him, hassling Carl in the kitchen. Their voices escape to the porch where Mickey has retreated, toes tapping furiously, nursing a beer and looking over and over again at the paper in his hand. 

Eventually Carl says something like, “I think Mickey’s out back,” and the next moment Ian’s red head appears around the door, eyes searching and hopeful. 

Mickey takes a swig of his beer. 

“You get it?” Ian asks, shutting the door behind him and settling in on the step next to Mickey, hip to hip. 

Mickey nods and passes the paper to Ian. He’s not sure what would come out if he tried to speak. He watches Ian’s face as he reads, sees the shift from excited anticipation to something else, something harder. Mickey’s still feeling that same _something else_ hum through his bloodstream like a hurricane. 

“He’s not yours,” Ian says at last, like he’s telling Mickey for the first time, as if Mickey hasn’t been reading those same words for the last hour. “No relation.”

“No relation,” Mickey says, and takes another drink. 

“Holy shit, Mick. Oh my god.” Ian’s eyes are huge and so fucking beautiful.

Maybe it’s those eyes, or maybe it’s because Ian knowing means that it’s actually real, but whatever the reason, a pressure valve in Mickey’s chest that he’s felt building since he’d first read the test results releases with bang.

“No fucking _RELATION_!” Mickey feels himself stand up and fling his beer bottle as hard as he can over the railing to crash down on the concrete paving below. It’s so unsatisfying that his entire body shudders.

Ian starts to say something, but Mickey isn’t in his body anymore. He sees himself, like he’s floating just above, sees himself breathe in, clench every muscle in his body, and just _scream_. 

It’s deep and loud, full of blood and bile, like pieces of him trapped deep inside finally bashed out of their cages to storm up out of him: Ian, who had loved that baby so hard because he was _Mickey’s_ , even though Mickey was too scared to see it; every time he’d forced himself to fuck a woman just to prove that he could, that he was a man his pop could be proud of; that idiot kid who’d thought it would be fun to have his boyfriend over to spend the night, just so that they could bang in a bed for once, and maybe not have the entire course of their life changed because of it. He screams out all the time lost to his fucking shitstain of a father. He screams so hard his throat feels shredded and raw and some asshole across the alley starts screaming back. 

Ian’s arms wrap him up and pull him back into himself, back to the steps and the smell of his shampoo, and the press of his hand against the back of his head, holding him so close.

Mickey realizes he’s crying. 

Ian just holds him for what feels like years, arms wrapped up so tight around him. Mickey just hangs there and lets himself be held.

Eventually the raging pulse of blood in Mickey’s ears quiets enough that he can hear Ian’s gentle hums and shushs, trying to calm him down. 

“You can cut that shit out,” Mickey says into Ian’s shoulder. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“I know that,” Ian says. 

They stand together in the quiet for a few more minutes. Mickey lets his arms wind up and around Ian’s back to pull him closer. A dog a few houses down is going fucking apeshit.

Mickey pulls himself away eventually, to wipe his face and shake off the remains of the storm. His body is still fidgety but his mind is much more calm. Ian keeps a hand on his lower back like an anchor. They sit down again on the steps and Mickey stares out into the dark.

Words gather in Mickey’s chest. “I don’t even want the kid to be mine. I don’t. I looked up all this shit about parental rights and it all felt wrong.” He wipes his wet face with his palms. “But all that shit that happened, all that time... pretending. That’s all it fucking was. Pretending.” Pretending to be straight, pretending to be married, pretending to be a father. 

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“It wasn’t real, Ian.”

“Bullshit, Mick. It was real. Some stupid test years later doesn’t change that.”

Mickey shakes his head. He should have waited for Ian to get home before he opened the envelope.

The door to the kitchen cracks open and Carl peers out, looking like he’s concerned he might get punched if he moves too quickly. 

“Is someone dying out here?” he asks. 

Ian rubs at Mickey’s back. “Just having an exorcism,” he says. Mickey has to turn away from Carl so that he doesn’t see his eyes fill up again. 

“Isn’t that like, with demons and shit?” Carl asks. 

“Jesus. Fuck off, please.” Ian snaps, and Mickey actually chokes out a laugh at that. Carl disappears back inside with a huff.

“You sound like me,” Mickey says.

Ian smiles; his hand rubs gently against the skin of Mickey’s lower back. “That happens, right?” Mickey sighs and thinks about that; what parts of him have imprinted on Ian, what of Ian has become a part of him. 

After a long moment, Ian says, “Gonna take some time to get used to this.” 

Mickey nods. He’s lived with a background buzz of guilt and anger about his kid for so long, the idea that he might now have a choice about what happens next in his life is too much to fully take in sitting out on the back steps on a random Thursday night.

“Can we play fucking cards or something?” Mickey asks, rubbing at his face. Just something easy for now. 

Ian looks over at him with that expression, the one Mickey would do anything for. “We could do a round of Garbage.” 

“Sounds about right.”

Ian snorts a little laugh, pulls Mickey to his feet, and wraps a comforting arm around his neck. Mickey feels weirdly light, like he’s been emptied out. 

“You’re the best goddamn thing in my life, Mick,” Ian says, “even with all this shit.” Mickey leans in and kisses him and Ian hauls his maudlin ass back inside to join the world again.

*

Later, lying together in bed, Ian whispers, “Would it be weird if I asked Svetlana to stay in touch every once in a while. Just tell us how he’s doing? I kinda want to know how he turns out, even though…” Mickey waits, but Ian doesn’t finish his thought. 

“What, like ask her to send a fucking Christmas card or something?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Mickey thinks about the warm weight of baby Yevgeny against his chest, how much he’d looked for signs of himself in the little boy he’d grown into. How much he’d been sure he saw them. “She’ll say no.”

“Can we ask?”

Mickey’s heart thuds gently against his ribs. “Yeah, fine. Okay.”

He stares at their new blue accent wall and leans into the solid weight of Ian’s body next to him, his other half, not going anywhere.

*

Friday morning is rough. Mickey can feel Ian’s mood dragging, that getting out of bed is not easy for him. 

“Can I do anything?” he asks as Ian slowly gets himself dressed.

“I’ll be okay. Didn’t sleep great. Thinking about Yev. And Clay.”

“You still want to do this thing tomorrow with Clay?”

Ian nods and manages a little half-smile. “Yeah. I might even be looking forward to it.”

Mickey hugs his husband for a long time before he lets him go out the door to work.

He calls Svetlana once he’s alone. He doesn’t want to waste time, and saying it still feels like shit, so he just tells her what the test revealed without preamble. 

“Now we know,” she says, icy voice like a cement wall.

“You don’t sound too fucking surprised.” As Mickey says it out loud he realizes she’s not surprised. That maybe she suspected this all along. 

“You could have been. But also could not. Always that was true.”

The rage that kindled in him the day before sparks for a moment, ancient history jumping out to smack Mickey right in the face. “Fuck. Why did you marry me? What was the point of that shit?”

Her voice when she responds loses some of the cold-blooded knife, sounds almost human. “We were protecting ourselves back then. Yes? Both of us? But I thought maybe. Maybe we could be happy, have family together. You were cute boy, strong. I did not know you were hiding too.”

Mickey swallows at the blunt reality of her words, his heart pounding. Thinks again of himself on the train with Ian, and how he’s not hiding anymore.

“Cute?” Mickey says, because saying anything else is going to hurt. “No one ever thought I was fucking _cute_.”

Svetlana laughs at that, a genuine laugh. 

“That was problem. Right person already thought you were cute. Not me.”

Warmth creeps up Mickey’s chest and into his cheeks that he and Ian had been so transparent back then, even when Mickey was trying his hardest to be the perfect little whore-fucking gun runner. 

“Alright, shit. Send a picture, will you, of the kid? Every once in a while. For Ian. He’s still attached, even though...”

It’s quiet on the other end of the line for a long moment, and Mickey steels himself up for disappointment. 

When Svetlana speaks again, though, she sounds almost sad. “Yes. Even though,” she says. And then, with finality. “Goodbye, Mickey.”

The call ends before Mickey can say goodbye in return. 

*

Mickey is assembling a chicken casserole that evening while Ian reclines at the table with a soda, shooting the shit and keeping him company. They haven’t talked about Svetlana or Clay or any of that crap, and Mickey’s basking in the normalcy for a moment. There’s still things to say and feelings to feel, but they’ve got time. 

“Called into the clinic today for an appointment,” Ian drops casually. “Can go in on Monday.”

Mickey works hard to not react, but a little shot of relief fires through his body. 

“Want me to come with?” 

Ian thinks for a minute. “You’d have to take off from work. I got it.”

Mickey nods. Ian does have it. He knows that.

“That looks fucking amazing, Mick.” Ian says as Mickey scoops cream sauce into the pot of pasta. 

Mickey swallows. He hasn’t made this for years, but something made him think of it this afternoon and he just started cooking. “Learned from ma. Long time ago. Feeds an army if you make it big enough. Just a bunch of carbs and protein. Not fucking complicated.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Hey, you ever think I was _cute_?” Mickey asks, hoping his voice is appropriately dripping in irony. 

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up and his face gets way too jolly. “You’re asking me if I think you’re cute?”

“Not now. Just, like, ever.”

Ian stands up and walks over towards him. “You are asking me, while wearing an apron, cooking dinner for my family, if I ever thought you were cute?” Ian reaches out and pulls Mickey into him by the belt loops. “You’re asking me this while you have flour on your nose?” 

“Fuck off.” Mickey goes to shove Ian away, but he has a good grip on Mickey’s hips. 

Ian shakes his head very slightly, still smirking. “No, absolutely not. I have never, ever thought you were cute.”

“Good. Fucking keep it that way, asshole,” Mickey says, fighting the blush he can feel creeping up his throat. 

Ian still doesn’t let him go. “No, it’s more _fine_ , like, so fine you blow my mind.”

Mickey glares at his idiot husband as hard as he knows how. “Don’t do it, Ian.”

“Aw, Mickey, you’re so pretty, can’t you understand…”

“You want me to ruin this casserole? ‘Cause I will.”

Ian laughs and pecks little kisses at Mickey’s pursed lips, murmuring, “It’s guys like you, Mickey,” until Mickey’s skin prickles with electricity and he has no choice but to dive in and kiss him back. 

“You are lucky I fucking love you,” Mickey says against Ian’s lips.

“We got this, Mick.” Ian doesn’t specify what _this_ he means, but it really doesn’t matter.

Mickey rests his forehead against Ian’s for a moment and breathes deep. “Yeah, we fucking do.”

*

The barbecue at Clay’s starts ugly, to say the least. 

Jacob is already there when Mickey, Ian, and Lip arrive. Lip looks appropriately daunted upon seeing Jacob for the first time, gets that somehow cocky, yet deer-in-headlights look that Mickey has seen many times over the years when Lip’s in over his head, where he just stares and sniffs a lot. It is painfully clear that they have interrupted something going on between Clay and Jacob, because the air is thick with tension and Jacob can’t look any of them in the eye.

Fucking excellent, Mickey thinks. Should be a great night.

“So glad you could all come!” Clay says, his voice way too cheerful and his face so much like Ian’s when he’s panicking. “Food’s out on the roof deck!”

They all follow Clay out, even Jacob, who grabs a beer from the rack Mickey has hauled in and skulks over by the shiny new barbecue. 

Clay has some brand new outdoor furniture set that looks like it came straight from the Home Depot. Mickey thinks if he looks hard enough he might find some tags still on. He gets himself a beer and plops down in one of the plush chairs near the chips and salsa and a fruit tray. If it’s gonna be a long night, at least he’s gonna eat well while he can.

Ian and Lip join him at the table. Clay bustles around and keeps up his usual flow of small talk, asking Lip about his job and about Freddie, but it’s all very formal and stilted. Lip plays along, but Mickey can see him keeping one eye on Jacob the whole time. Ian keeps shooting Mickey these little alarmed glances over the top of his soda can. 

“Alright, fuck it,” Mickey says, when he can’t take the floundering for another minute. 

Conversation stops and all eyes focus on Mickey. Shit.

Mickey’s pulse accelerates and he ignores the look Ian gives him. Instead he stands up, grabs four cans of beer, and starts passing them out to everyone but Lip. 

“You idiots ever shotgunned before?”

There’s an awkward silence, but then Clay says, “Of course,” at the same moment that Jacob says, “No.”

“Oh my god, dad,” Jacob mutters from his corner. 

“Mick, you know I can only have one beer,” Ian says, still giving him a look. 

“That’s one beer,” Mickey retorts, hoping Ian will just go with him on this one. 

“What the hell should I do?” Lip asks.

Mickey peers into the cooler Clay has stocked full of drinks and ice and grabs something out. “Here’s a fucking…” Mickey reads the can, “...limoncello seltzer. Use that.” He tosses it to Lip. 

“That’s gonna be disgusting.”

“Like shotgunning a beer isn’t disgusting?”

Lip shrugs. “Fair enough.”

Mickey pulls out his knife and motions for everyone to gather around the table. “Cmon, let’s go. You need any instructions, kid?” Mickey asks Jacob. 

Jacob holds his beer like it’s a grenade. His t-shirt today reads _If you are not a part of the solution, you are a part of the precipitate._ “What do I do?” It’s the first he’s really spoken to them since they arrived.

“Mickey’ll stab a hole in your can with his terrifying knife. Get your mouth on it quick and then pop the top.” Lip says, as if Jacob had been asking him directly. 

“You gotta swallow all at once,” Ian adds. “Don’t stop.”

“That all sounded fucking filthy, Gallaghers. Cans out please,” Mickey orders.

Jacob looks doubtful, but at least he’s stopped looking like he’s gonna try and punch someone in the head again. 

“You ready?” Mickey asks, knife poised over Jacob’s beer can. 

“Not really,” he says. “But I guess so.”

Mickey glances over at Ian, and Ian smiles his fucking perfect half-smile. Mickey thinks maybe he’s learning to do a few things right. 

“Ready or not,” Mickey says. 

*

A couple of hours and a whole lot of barbecued ribs later, Ian settles in next to Mickey on one of the outdoor sofas and slings his arm over his shoulder. Clay had strung up some outdoor lights that he has turned on to light up the dusk.

“Hello, husband,” he says, planting a soft kiss on Mickey’s cheek. 

“How drunk are you?” Mickey asks with a grin. 

“Not very,” Ian says. “Just happy.”

Mickey looks out at the party. Jacob and Lip are sitting across the table from each other nerding out about artificial intelligence nonsense requiring lots of gesticulating and loud voices. Clay is at the far end, listening, looking a little drunk, but also like a guy who might be figuring some shit out. Mickey thinks about everything he knows is still ahead for all of them, none of it easy.

“It’s a start, I guess,” Ian says into Mickey’s hair.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, leaning against Ian’s shoulder. “It’s a start.”

*


End file.
